when there was no wind. They moved of their own will as though alive,
and they touched, by some incalculable method, my own keen sense of the
_horrible_.

There they stood in the moonlight, like a vast army surrounding our
camp, shaking their innumerable silver spears defiantly, formed all
ready for an attack.

The psychology of places, for some imaginations at least, is very vivid;
for the wanderer, especially, camps have their "note" either of welcome
or rejection. At first it may not always be apparent, because the busy
preparations of tent and cooking prevent, but with the first
pause--after supper usually--it comes and announces itself. And the note
of this willow-camp now became unmistakably plain to me: we were
interlopers, trespassers, we were not welcomed. The sense of
unfamiliarity grew upon me as I stood there watching. We touched the
frontier of a region where our presence was resented. For a night's
lodging we might perhaps be tolerated; but for a prolonged and
inquisitive stay--No! by all the gods of the trees and the wilderness,
no! We were the first human influences upon this island, and we were not
wanted. _The willows were against us_.

Strange thoughts like these, bizarre fancies, borne I know not whence,
found lodgment in my mind as I stood listening. What, I thought, if,
after all, these crouching willows proved to be alive; if suddenly they
should rise up, like a swarm of living creatures, marshaled by the gods
whose territory we had invaded, sweep towards us off the vast swamps,
booming overhead in the night--and then _settle down_! As I looked it
was so easy to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer, retreated a
little, huddled together in masses, hostile, waiting for the great wind