# Emanuel, or Children of the Soil/Book 2, Chapter 6

Emanuel went out by a gate at the further end of the garden leading into the open fields. Here he found himself on the highest point of the district, the so-called "Parsonage Hill," from the top of which a wide view was gained. On every side were pale green fields of rye, which glistened in the sun among the dark ploughed land; light blue mists lay over the fens and swampy places, ditches and ponds steamed, and the whole land was enveloped in fruitful vapours, the fresh spring air was filled with sunlight, and the song of birds, all heralding the festal entrance of summer any day. Emanuel took a path which led from the Parsonage, through a number of outlying fields towards the fiord. It was the same path taken by Miss Ragnhild in her hurried little sunset promenades. He did not think of this however, nor was it because of this that it had become his favourite walk. If they were both attached to it, the reason was the same for him as well as for her; they could have the most solitude here. In their loneliness they involuntarily sought still lonelier spots, and in these remote fields only an occasional cottage was to be seen or a solitary peasant ploughing.
In the course of the winter, Emanuel had wandered here every day in his long coat, and with his inseparable companion, the black silk umbrella, which was as dear to him as a trusted ​friend. He had often roamed about for half a day among the hills and along the deserted shore without rhyme or reason; and in this intimate communion with nature he at last found some recompense for the loss of human intercourse. Everything here continued to be fresh and wonderful to him. He had never before imagined that anything could be so captivating, as, for example, the slow passage of grey wintry clouds over the earth; or anything so enchanting as listening to the wild cries of the crows as they flew homewards over the fields at sunset.
His heart leapt with delight when, one day in the beginning of February, he discovered the first pale shoots in the ditches—and the first lark! Never would he forget the moment when, in the deep silence of the fields, he suddenly heard the ethereal trills of a lark, sure forerunner of the summer, while all around, still lay bound in winter's grasp.
On this occasion he went down to the shore, where he was in the habit of spending some time watching the gulls as they flew about, mute and restless, as if guarding some great secret. But to-day the beach was empty. The warmth and the exhalations of the meadows had driven the flocks of birds towards the mouth of the fiord and the sea. He continued his walk along the shore, revelling in the sight of the vast blue shallows of the fiord, in which the distant fishing villages and the wooded slopes of the opposite shore were reflected with wonderful clearness.
​At last he climbed a hill to the south, whence he again had a wide view of the country. Skibberup lay straight below him with its three bare earth mounds.
He always felt specially attracted by the sight of this village, which, with its clusters of small cottages, its spreading pond, and its many windings and turnings, seemed to him much more idyllic than Veilby, with its brand-new, formal peasant farms which he had before him daily. He was also doubly saddened when he reflected that it was in this very village that the anti-clerical movement had its head-quarters; and when his eye suddenly fell on a low, dilapidated building in the middle of the village, over the thatched roof of which a "Dannebrog's" flag waved, a pang shot through his heart. He guessed that it was the "Meeting House" from which Hansen the weaver carried on his angry battle against the church.
At one end of the village, lying by itself, was a little place with yellow washed outbuildings, which Emanuel at once recognised as the farm to which he had been fetched in the sledge on that winter evening to administer the Holy Communion to the owner's suffering daughter. He had often thought since of that evening and the strangers among whom he had come in such a strange way to inaugurate his priestly ​work. He had often been inclined to renew his visit to them and to ask after their daughter; but hitherto he had no more summoned up courage to do so than to mix with any of the other people of the district. His innate shyness soon caused him to draw back from all personal intimacies, when—almost immediately after his first sermon—the people showed their unfriendly feeling towards him so plainly.
He buttoned his coat, dusted it, and drew on his gloves, and walked down with firm steps towards the village.