It was Sunday, the Sunday bells were ringing and the white, long roads were empty and dull, in the quiet sunshine, Hedwig feared the Sunday and tried to flee of it. An hour's walk from the house, there was a big river that streamed towards the sea. Hedwig went up there, early in the morning, the dew lay thick on the grass. She thought of the basalt built dyke, where flowers are growing in the chinks of the black blocks, and of the reedy pools and the brushwood between the dyke and the stream, which were underwater in winter, and even in summer were here and there still blue slimed. There the red Epilobium flowered now, and birds were wandering through the shrubs. She thought about it and looked for these places, for there would not been no Sunday overthere.
But first, she had to follow the high dyke road which led to the town. The farms were on both sides of the roads, below in the shadows of the fruit trees. And Hedwig considered how it came that you could see by looking at the air and earth that it was Sunday. And why was Sunday such a gloomy day that spoiled the lovely outdoor feeling? It was right and good when man could rest some day and think of God. But it seemed as if God did not greatly loke their way of rest and enjoyment. Or nature, earth and air, plants and animals did not fit in with their consecration. Birds and flowers had a greater consecration of their own to which man was least inimical when most mechanically active. His Sabbaths and consecration were stiff, unpleasant and annoying.