Ólafur Eyvindsson had crossed the country from Reykjavik by way of the western dales with a train of eight ponies. The packing boxes, saddles and provisions had been forwarded by the coast steamer, so that when we landed from the Botnia, thanks to the faithfulness of Helgi ZoËga, everything was in readiness for our departure. At one in the afternoon we entered a launch and crossed the broad EyjarfÖrÐr. On the beach we found a farmer with ponies saddled and waiting for our departure to MÝvatn, Midge-Lake. Ólafur had taken the precaution to drive the ponies around the upper end of the fiord and across the marshes at low tide the previous evening for pasturage as grass is scarce in Akureyri and the charges are excessive.

We left the bulk of our provisions at the house of the farmer, since we would not require them in the region we were about to visit and it was necessary to return to Akureyri to set out upon our long journey across the country. We ascended the bluff and turned northwards to climb the mountain along a diagonal.

Once more in the saddle, with the length of the summer and the width of Iceland between us and the steamer that would bear us from Reykjavik to Denmark. Our trip up the east coast and the stops at the trading posts had been pleasant and full of interest but the real work, and the enjoyment that is born of it, was before us. It was with a spirit of exultation that we turned the ponies into the narrow trail that winds up the mountain side and, after a year of absence, felt the motion of our little steeds. Step by step we climbed the gradient; little by little the fiord below narrowed and lengthened; the sounds of the fishermen and the bustle of the shipping diminished and finally disappeared altogether. The mountain rose in a wild tumble of treeless ridges and ice-crowned escarpments, scored with shining glaciers and coursed by numberless waterfalls and trickling rivulets that resolved the great silence into a musical cadence. We “knew the land of smiling face,” we understood from experience that there were bridgeless and troublesome rivers to cross, morasses to negotiate or in which to founder, smoking solfataras and trackless wastes of lava, deserts of sand and glacial moraines to cross between the northern and southern coasts. But the spell of Viking Land was upon us and we realized that for the summer it was all our own,—free to anyone who would take the trouble to explore,—to roam when and where we willed, unfettered by time tables, with no porters, cabbies nor waiters to break the spell, no fences to obstruct, no “trespass forbidden” to turn us aside, no man to say us nay. The roar of the locomotive and the purr of the motor had been left far behind as also the jostling of ubiquitous tourists with their satellites the guides. A day of delight in the saddle was to be followed each day by a better one: an evening welcome at a humble farm and a heartfelt God-speed in the morning. Our only limitation, the ponies. These promised well at the start. They had been carefully chosen and at the end of the long and difficult journey proved their worth.

The ascent of VaÐlaheiÐi, Wade-Heath, in sunshine is one of the best rides in Iceland. The long fiord opens out to the Arctic Ocean at our feet and the distant JÖkulls rise into prominence with diadems of ice upon their brows. The pastures on the lower slopes stud the valley with gems of emerald. Nearing the summit we came upon the unmelted snows of winter, which were crusted sufficiently to support the horses. Here we found a company of men laboriously dragging telephone poles to the summit to repair the damage of the winter storms. At an elevation of 2,300 feet above the fiord we reached a flat moorland which slopes gently, at first, towards the east. We paused to bait the ponies and stretched ourselves at length on a mound of Arctic flowers and gazed across the valley to the Vindheima JÖkull, Home of the Winds.

We followed a zigzag line of cairns down towards the valley of the FnjÓskÁ, Touch-Wood-River. The view of this valley with the broad, swift river flowing in a long series of S-curves, the enormous mounds of volcanic ash fantastically sculptured by the wind, the little farm by the river where we refreshed ourselves with real cream and the forest of diminutive birch on the opposite bank of the river, these will never be forgotten. To one accustomed to seeing the joyous meadows of Iceland in undulating reaches of emerald green sprinkled with brilliant flowers, the tangled heaths of the uplands where roam uncounted sheep and half-wild ponies and the barren slopes of the foot hills of the volcanic ranges, as viewed from any descending trail,—this prospect is extremely pleasing. It must be remembered that there are no real forests in Iceland. Henderson, writing in 1817, says,—

“About a hundred years ago the valley exhibited one of the finest forests in Iceland, but now there is not a single tree to be seen,—such has been the havoc made by the inclemency of the seasons and the improvident conduct of the inhabitants. The remains of this forest are still visible on the east side of the river, which divides the valley, in the numerous stumps of birch trees which present themselves, some of which exceed two feet in diameter.”

That there were large forests in the ancient days we have plenty of evidence in the numerous references in the Sagas. In the thirty-sixth chapter of Burnt NjÁl we read:—

“There was a man named Swart, Bergthora’s house-carle. Now Bergthora told him that he must go up into Redslip and hew wood; I will get men to draw home the wood.”

There is further evidence that the wood was large enough so that it was hewn for ship-building and for houses. Since Henderson’s day, the FnjÓskÁ forest has sprouted and grown to a considerable size. The trees are four to eight feet high and mostly of birch. There are several of these birch forests in Iceland and the government not only protects them but provides a trained forester to study the local problems of forestation. Though not large enough for timber yet the birch has a definite value for the people. The branches and brush are used to lay between the layers of fuel while drying and the larger pieces are used to make plaiting on the roofs over which turf is laid. The tough birch also lends itself well to the making of rakes and other implements upon the farm.

Until quite recently the passage of the FnjÓskÁ was most difficult and we were agreeably surprised to find a reinforced concrete bridge spanning the flood. What a task was its construction! The cement and steel had to be transported over the mountain by the ponies from Akureyri but a great mistake was made in its width. It is suitable for horseback crossing but will not permit the passage of even a two-wheel cart of short axle, such as is being introduced upon some of the farms. The building of these bridges is doing much to bring the remote farms into closer relationship.

Crossing a waste of wind-driven sand and ashes we arrived at the parsonage of HÁls, Ridge, a farm of great antiquity. For many centuries it has been the resting place for travellers across the mountains from Akureyri to the east. Even in Saga days, when farers from over the seas drew up their ships in the fiord for the winter and journeyed eastward for “guesting” they made use of this place for refreshment. We did not call as we hoped to reach another farm at the far end of the lake by evening.

The descent of the ridge into the upper end of the valley is pleasing because of the varied scenery. At the foot of the hill we crossed a bog and forded a small stream; the bog was difficult on account of recent rain and the ponies moved with greatest caution. When we reached solid ground we halted to graze the ponies and to examine the rich flora of the locality. As we mounted a party of Englishmen whirled by at a furious gallop. This gave us some concern as we knew that the farm towards which we were making our way had accommodations for only one party and it looked as if they intended to be the party. We learned later that they turned towards the north in search of a coal deposit, which it is needless to say they did not find.

LjÓsavatnsskarÐ, Lake-of-Light-Pass, is a narrow valley, a watershed. The stream that tumbles down the gorge from the mountains divides into two arms, one flows eastward into the lake and the other westward into the FnjÓskÁ. The ride down towards the lake is one continual crossing of small streams that rush down the snow gullies. From the pass to the margin of the lake we crossed, by actual count, fifty-three of these white streams during a ride of two hours.

LjÓsavatn, Lake-of-Light, will ever remain one of the brightest memory pictures of Icelandic scenery. The lake is long and narrow, the mountains descend abruptly on either side. The tumbling cascades, the many sheep upon the green ridges between the cataracts, the cattle grazing eye-deep in the lush grass along the shore, the numerous water fowl, where many a

the spectrum colors in the lava cliffs, the bands of cloud that hang perpetually over the narrow notch,—with clouds, colors, waterfalls and crags mirrored in the burnished surface,—formed a picture framed in the dark outlines of the mountains that caused us to dismount and for an hour held our close attention.

At evening we reached the DjÚpÁ, Deep-River, well named. This stream has carved a gorge through a mass of old craters and heaps of volcanic ash. Under the influence of several days of continual sunshine the snows had been rapidly melting. We spent an hour in a fruitless search for a suitable ford and then drove the pack ponies into the torrent to swim across and composed ourselves for a good wetting in the icy water. We drew our knees above the necks of the ponies, seized the crupper strap with the left hand, turned the ponies up stream and made the crossing without serious mishap. A portion of the way the ponies were obliged to swim and the rapid current carried them far down stream. Thanks to the sagacity of the little fellows and to their perseverance, we escaped without getting wet, although our precarious position, balanced as we were on the top of the saddles, promised to topple us into the angry waters. The pack horses swam the stream with the packing cases partly submerged. Within an hour we were made comfortable in the tidy farmhouse at LjÓsavatn and the contents of the cases were spread in the kitchen to dry. The house is large and comfortable and two beds were prepared for us upstairs, an unusual condition as the guest room is usually on the ground floor. We had only one inconvenience,—the telephone is located in the guest chamber. Beside the house there is a small church where the farmers and their families assemble on Sunday, some of them from a considerable distance.

On the Sabbath all work ceases in Iceland, unless approaching rain makes it imperative that the cured hay be taken to the stacks. The people array themselves in their best attire and ride to church at a wild gallop, each on his favorite pony. The small children ride with their parents and the young people from the different farms so time their journey as to meet at the intersecting bridle paths and relate the news of the past week. On they ride, an ever increasing cavalcade, over moor and mountain ridge, across brook and farm till the parish has assembled at the church. The ponies are hobbled or turned into a compound and their riders have an hour for gossip before the service begins. The aged sit upon the grass and exchange snuff—a universal custom in Iceland,—and eagerly report the gossip that has filtered to the distant farms from the coast. The young meet in the church yard and many a pledge is here given that binds them together till the turf of the same yard receives beneath its floral decorations one of the faithful pair. The women hasten to the parsonage to don their best gown and arrange their braids and the silk tassel of the hÚfa, woman’s cap. Finally arrives the pastor at the church, who greets all the people individually, arrays himself in his accustomed robes and then with the ringing of the bell the service begins. The sermon is generally read from manuscript, after which the Holy Communion is celebrated frequently followed by a christening. The service ended, the people usually assemble at a near-by house for coffee and further conversation after which the parties go their several ways. The young men attempt to show the speed of their ponies in short spurts that would do credit to a western cow-boy, each trying to outstrip the other. The maidens follow demurely and the old people ride away last of all in a quiet manner. How well they know from experience that as soon as their sons are out of sight that they will rein down those galloping steeds and hold them until the maidens overtake them. Then SigurÐ and Karin, side by side, will wend their leisurely way to Karin’s home just like the young couples of other lands. The merry greetings and the cheerful partings at the church yard have ceased to fill the air and only the wind stirs the long grass upon the roof and sways the flowers upon the graves.

No pack trains come and go, no hay-laden ponies wind up from the meadows, no scythe rings with the stone,—the sounds of farm-life are hushed and the peace of the well-kept Sabbath rests upon these homes. Sunday evening calls are made and long ones they are, coffee is served with delicious cakes, the snuff horn circulates freely and in the compound the saddled ponies patiently await the coming of their masters for the wild ride over the moors to their own pastures.

I have witnessed many Sundays in Iceland and each one impressed me with the peace and happiness of its people, the devotion of worship and the value of the plain and simple life as a factor in contentment. To the young men who enquired about the customs of America and its advantages I had little to offer and my advice was to stay where the customs of centuries had ingrained habits of simplicity and instilled contentment. After all, what more do we wish in this world than contentment? Given enough to eat and to wear, protecting shelters, books and an occupation, the influence of right living and an absence of the craving for money and position, and man may be truly happy,—no matter under what sky his tent is pitched. In Reykjavik with its sprinkling of foreign merchants and its few people who ape the customs of the continent in dress and in vice, yes and in idleness the mother of most of the vices, conditions are different. As in America, so in Iceland, the boy, who leaves the paternal roof and the occupation of his ancestors, who scorns the opportunities of the farm and seeks his fortune in the metropolis, soon puts aside his home-taught virtues, lapses into ways of idleness, acquires the idea that the world owes him the same living as that won by the ceaseless energy of toil, and it is not long before he becomes a derelict upon the ocean of humanity.

At breakfast we were treated for the first time in our Icelandic experience to the national dish of skyr, curdled milk. My first experience was not pleasant but I have since learned to relish it. It was necessary to eat a goodly portion of it in order not to offend the mistress who had taken considerable trouble to prepare it for us in the best fashion. Skyr has been a national dish from the earliest days of the Vikings but the method of its preparation has been kept secret. On our second return from Iceland we were accompanied by an Icelandic maid, who frequently prepared for our table Icelandic dishes, but we could never persuade her to prepare this dish nor to tell us how it was made. Another dish set before us was cheese made of sheep’s milk; it was nearly chocolate in color and resembled mild roquefort in flavor. I needed no repeated trials to acquire a taste for this delicacy. It was set before us at every farm but it varied a good deal in quality. If one does not relish a rich, full-flavored cheese then the Icelandic cheese of sheep’s milk would not appeal to his taste.

The country around LjÓsavatn is of considerable geological interest. The lake is of glacial origin and around it are several small drumlins of ashes and rubble which are now being transformed into conglomerate. The lake has the form of the Scottish inland lochs and was formed by the filling in of one end of a glacial valley with glacial debris. Since the formation of the lake there has been a lava outflow across the east end of the valley and scores of small craters are along the banks of the DjÚpÁ.

An hour’s ride from the farm across the ancient lava bed brings the traveller to the bridge across the SkjÁlfandafljÓt, Trembling River, and to the GoÐafoss, Falls-of-the-Gods, one of the most beautiful waterfalls in Iceland. It has not the grandeur of the Gullfoss and the Dettifoss but its symmetrical formation and the two even sheets of water that pour over its brink unbroken make it very attractive. In form it is like Niagara, and like Niagara has its rocky island near the middle. The eastern fall is about seven feet lower than the western, due to the lava formation over which the water flows. The falls are between twenty-five and thirty feet in height according to the melting of the snows. The rocky islet is split asunder and a solid stream of water pours through the cleft forming a central fall. The spray and mist from the falls are visible for many miles around and to one accustomed to look for hot springs, whenever mists are seen rising in a column from the plain, this waterfall comes as a great surprise when one approaches the unexpected canyon.

All the country side is historic land and is frequently mentioned in the Sagas. When we left the river valley and climbed to the summit of the tableland and were skirting the great bog, we recalled that it was related in the Saga of Hrafnkell, Frey’s Priest, how SÁmr with three ponies rode from MÝvatn across FljÓtsheiÐi, River-Heath, to LjÓsavatn Pass and on to the great fiord. We were taking the same journey but in the opposite direction. The great heath on the upland is typical of the highland heaths of Iceland and may be briefly described in this connection.

It is a tongue of land some thirty miles long, reaching down from the inland plateau between two great river valleys. When the summit is gained it appears quite flat but a place where one would little expect to find extensive bogs and marshes, but such is the case. We followed the bog at its margin for nearly two hours in search of a place to cross and noted that patches of water glimmered here and there. Beautiful Arctic flowers fringed the margin of the pools, masses of Eriophorum, Cotton-Grass, spread their white sheets in the sun and the dwarf birch and Arctic willow tangled every foot of the way. Scores of ancient bridle trails cut into the ground so deeply that in places the ponies rubbed their sides against the turf in following them. Numerous sheep were scattered about the moorland singly and in groups of three to a dozen. Often a sheep would get into the trail and run in front of the ponies for half an hour bleating in a frightened manner. This custom of making a needless run until exhausted and driven far from their companions speaks strongly for the small intelligence of these domestic animals. The sheep run wild upon the mountain pastures and moors throughout the summer and are characteristic features of the landscape.

At the narrow neck of glacial moraine where we crossed the great bog we halted for an hour for lunch and to graze the ponies and shift the saddles. These out of door luncheons are real picnics. One turns up the lid of a packing case for a table, seats himself upon the grass and finds more enjoyment in the repast than at the best spread board in a fashionable hotel. The plover and whimbrel are always about to add their joyous cries to the calling of the curious sheep, the ponies graze contentedly around the outer circle of the luncheon board and over all is the deep blue vault and showers of glorious sunshine. Those hours of rest and refreshment upon the heather and the enjoyment of the pipe! We were veritable Arabs, our steeds the thoroughbred Icelandic ponies and our oasis the patch of grass in the midst of a great lava desolation. There are no palm trees beside the water hole to complete the Oriental scene but a pillar of lava shelters one from the wind, or, if the day be sultry, one may crawl beneath a scrub of Arctic willow to ward off the sun and it is then, if the flies are present, that the pipe is a double comfort.

In the middle of the afternoon as we were descending a ridge into a gully with a boggy brook to cross we heard a shout from the top of the ridge, “Turn to the left, the crossing is better.” Looking back we saw a party of several Icelanders galloping down the slope, led by a portly gentleman with a smiling countenance. We paused till he approached and were surprised to have him address us by name and add that he expected us to spend the night at his home. It was Árni JÓnsson of SkÚtustaÐir, Cave-Stead, the Dean of MÝvatn, accompanied by his wife and three friends. They had just come from Akureyri, having stopped at the parsonage of HÁls while we had been at LjÓsavatn. From this moment until we reached his farm the ride was most enjoyable on account of the companionship of the Dean. Several years of his early life had been passed in North Dakota and he was well acquainted with the customs of the United States. He spoke English with fluency and had many questions to ask about America. We were glad to give him the information in return for the many questions we found necessary to ask him about Iceland and the customs of his people.

With sixteen ponies we made a merry showing as eight of us rode in single file at a full gallop over the undulating moor, now rising to the top of a ridge with a broad view of the country bordering the lake we were approaching, now descending into a gully rich in grass where we made the customary halt to rest the ponies. Towards evening we rode down to the KrÁkÁ, Crow-River, which we forded and soon afterwards arrived at the farm of the Dean. We were ushered into the sitting room, a separate room was provided for our luggage and we were given a large room over the ThinghÚs adjoining. The ThinghÚs in each Syssel, County, corresponds to the Court House in our Counties.

The children followed us about with some curiosity and were especially interested in our toilet preparations. They were excellently behaved and watched every chance to be of assistance. We enjoyed an excellent supper and that which made it especially agreeable was the fact that the Dean’s wife dined with us. This is a rare occurrence for strangers in Iceland. After supper we sat for a long time listening to the Dean’s account of his people. He was very obliging and afforded us much information relative to the conditions of the church, Icelandic politics, woman suffrage and education.

Weary with the eight hours in the saddle, Mrs. Russell retired while I roamed about the farm till midnight, examining the strange lava formations. Midnight? Yes, but bright as day and under a cloudless sky. When one is interested in the north of Iceland, he does not know when to go to bed. At the end of my long ramble I expected to find Mrs. Russell asleep, on the contrary she was sitting up in bed admiring the needlework on the sheets and pillow cases. The upper sheet had a hand crocheted insertion in Icelandic, GoÐa Nott, Sof Ðu Rott, Good Night, Sleep Softly. One of the pillow slips was marked in the same fashion, GoÐa Nott, Pabbi, Good Night, Papa. The other was marked, with the similar Icelandic expression for Good Night, Mamma. We admired the skillful needlework and the amount of time and patience necessary to complete this remarkable set and admitted that the Dean’s wife possessed considerable skill, even among Icelandic women where the art of hand embroidery is far advanced. When we commented upon it, Mr. JÓnsson, with a smile, called to him his little daughter of twelve and said,—

“This is the little lady who did that needle work. She did it while in the fields last summer and without our knowing anything about it. It was her Christmas present to father and mother.”

Several days later as we were packing the cases preparatory to our departure, this little girl approached and shyly presented to Mrs. Russell a package. Not knowing the contents it was accepted with the customary handshaking. When a chance moment offered it was slyly opened and lo! it was one of those pillow cases. We then protested against receiving so valuable a gift and one that had been devoted to a parent with a child’s love at Christmas time. Mr. JÓnsson assured us that his daughter was sincere in her wish that we should take it home to the United States and that she would be happy to make another to complete the set. This pillow case, covering a pillow of genuine eider down, has since held a place of honor in our guest room and we never see it without recalling the bright faces and the hearty hospitality of SkÚtustaÐir.

At eight in the morning I awoke and was scarcely out of bed when the door opened and in came the maid, Kristine, with coffee, sugar, cream and cakes for our first meal. I tried to have her leave it outside the door and motioned her away but it was of no use. In she came with the air of one who knew her duty to her master’s guests and intended to fulfill it. She placed the tray on a stand, turned quickly to our clothes, gathered them up and was about to take them away when I protested as vigorously as I could with signs that they were necessary for my immediate use, but to no effect. I did succeed in pulling from her grasp my trousers but she fled smilingly with all the other items of wearing apparel even to the hats and riding boots. We were prisoners. After the coffee had been drunk the maid returned with the clothes nicely brushed and folded and the boots polished. Ever after this I slept with my trousers under my pillow and my extra pair of shoes hid in the room; otherwise I would have often been deprived of an hour of delightful strolling about the farm before the real breakfast.

The MÝvatn region is the most fascinating, the most weird as well as the most beautiful place in all Iceland. I believe it to be the fairest spot in all that land of sun-kissed and wind-swept enchantment. The lake is twenty miles long and its deepest place is not over twelve feet. There are places where the water is hot and others where the water flows from under the lava in ice-cold streams into the lake. At the entrance of these streams there is excellent trout fishing. The lake is dotted with islands, each a small crater, each fringed to the edge of the water with the fragrant Angelica, each clothed with grass nearly to the summit and each summit black and red, scorched, blistered and horrent. Hundreds of these low craters fringe the southern end of the lake and are scattered over the adjoining farms, especially the farm of SkÚtustaÐir. They are an exact representation of the mountains of the moon as viewed through a powerful telescope. To the geologist the MÝvatn craters are of rare interest, for nowhere else on the earth are they duplicated in the numbers and in their peculiar formation. They rest like huge ant hills on a level plain, each is circular in form and many of them are confluent at the base. The slopes of many of the mounds are covered with bombs and of characteristic type. The character of the bombs on the slopes of widely separated craters is different, indicating a different period of eruption and a different composition of lava which entered into their formation.

One of the craters deserves a special description. It is shaped like an inverted funnel with the stem cut off at the apex of the funnel. Out of this orifice the lava was hurled in liquid drops to so great a height in the air that it cooled and the bombs returned to the crater and around it like a shower of grape-shot. It must have been a wonderful sight, the spraying of the upper air with liquid lava like water from a hose and to such an altitude that the stream broke into drops and every drop cooled before it returned to earth. A few of the bombs are fused together because they collided in a viscid condition. Others are flattened because the mass struck the earth before they had become rigid; but most of them are spherical and vary in size from tiny pellets to a croquet ball.

There are several tintrons around MÝvatn and in the adjacent region of HÚsavik. A tintron is a hornito, or more correctly speaking, a lava chimney. A hornito is a veritable lava oven from which issues smoke and fumes and it may be level or even sunk below the level of the general surface of the lava sheet; while a tintron, like a factory chimney with a spreading base, rises from the level ground to the height of many feet. It is evident from examination that they were formed by the spouting of lava in a liquid state so hot as to have lost its viscousness, and, like geyser-formations, that which fell upon the rim cooled and continual spoutings built the tintron. We ascended one of the tintrons beside the lake and gazed down into its black depths. The outer surface at the base is clothed with grass while the tintron proper is encrusted with lichens. What a rugged and forbidding aspect is presented in the interior! Deep, deep down into the earth extends the flue, its wall hung with lava stalactites and patches of lava that solidified as the material dripped back into the interior after an explosion.

Of the scores of craters around MÝvatn that I explored, only one contained water,—except those in the lake,—and this one is known as Thangbrandspollr, Thangbrand’s Pool. Thangbrand was a Saxon Priest whom Olaf Tryggvason, King of Norway (995-1000 A. D.) sent to Iceland to perform a wholesale christening of the pagans. King Olaf forced Christianity upon his subjects at the point of the sword, killing and plundering all who refused to forsake the worship of Thor and Odin and take the christening. Thangbrand was chosen for the Icelandic mission because of his inhuman and zealous methods. He had, what he deserved, little success. We read that,—[9]“Hall let himself be christened and all his household.”

It was merely the act without any conversion from Scandinavian polytheism. Again we read,—

“Winterlid, the Scald, made a scurvy rime about him,” Thangbrand. And again we find,—[10]“Thorvald, the Guileful, and Winterlid, the Scald, made a scurvy rime about Thangbrand, but he slew them both. Thangbrand abode three winters in Iceland, and was the bane of men or ever he departed thence.”

It is reported in Iceland that this Pool is the place where Thangbrand christened his converts. Since it is authentic that he passed the time in Iceland at the home of Hall, which was in the southeast of Iceland, it is not likely that this is the real pool, although it is true that christenings took place in this pool at very early times. The Vikings did not take very kindly to the christening and the following facts will be of interest to those who dispute over the correct method of baptism. When the priests found that the Icelanders were the most stubborn of all the pagans of their experience about the rite of christening, the priests changed their tactics and performed their christenings in the warm pools adjacent to the hot springs. Their method of baptism in the eleventh century in Iceland may be inferred.

The Saga references show that the MÝvatn region was an important place in the early days of colonization and in subsequent centuries and we reluctantly close the old annals so full of interest to the antiquarian and the historian, and turn again to a more general view of the MÝvatn of the present. The view from SkÚtustaÐir is remarkable and of great variety. In the foreground, the quiet lake, alive with water fowl and fringed with prosperous farms, presents a picture of pastoral peace and beauty; in the distance across the lake rise clouds of steam and sulfurous gases from the sizzling solfataras of NÁmaskarÐ, Sulfur-Pass; to the left rises the innocent looking peaks of Krafla, Creeping, and LeirnÚkr, Mud-Peak, two famous volcanoes; to the right, the prominent feature in the landscape is Hverfjall, Hot-Spring-Mountain. Hverfjall is a large circular crater of the explosion type. It stands 700 feet above the level of the plain and is 4875 feet in diameter across the top. It is four miles in circumference at the summit of the rim. The interior is a mass of fragments and crushed rubble. There is a large mound in the center composed of crumpled lava with angular edges. It is doubtful if lava ever flowed from this great crater, although there was said to have been an eruption in 1728. I found no evidence of such eruption, other than that of a violent upheaval of the crust due to internal explosions of a mighty character. A force beyond human comprehension or calculation thrust upwards this enormous mass and dropped the titanic fragments in the form of this circular wall 700 feet high here,—

The farm at SkÚtustaÐir is one to which my thoughts often revert. I spent some time there in 1910 and was so charmed with the place and delighted with the Dean and his family that I returned to it for a more extended visit in 1913. The Dean has since moved to HÓlmar, EskifjÖrÐr. SkÚtustaÐir is a scene unmatched in Iceland, the lake, the sloping uplands clothed with excellent grass and sprinkled with a wealth of Arctic flowers, the flocks and herds in the succulent pastures, the farm buildings, ThinghÚs and church grouped on an eminence between two bodies of water and the grand panorama of meadows, rivers and volcanoes, with their ascending columns and clouds of steam,—a panorama that is well worth a summer and ten thousand miles of travel. On each of my visits the haying was in full swing. The men rose early to cut the grass in the dew and paused at midday for a long rest and a plunge in the lake while the raking, bundling and stacking continued well into the night. Numerous cocks of hay rose from the closely pared turf, many wild ducks led their young from one sheet of water to the other, crossing the yard between the buildings or pausing around the haycocks to pick the numerous insects or venturing close to the doorways of the buildings for bits of food. Along the margin of the lake I found many of the swimming sandpipers, Lobipes hyperboreus, the Northern Phalarope. It is a beautiful bird and at MÝvatn it is so tame that one may sit quietly on the bank and coax it up within a few feet of the shore where it will dart about picking up the insects thrown to it. I devoted an hour to studying this bird, feeding it in groups of several and in taking their photographs. What a shame it is that New England birds are not treated with the same thoughtfulness as the birds of Iceland! These birds were within a minute’s walk of the house.

We strolled around the east side of the lake to the north shore and for three days made our headquarters at ReykjahliÐ, Smoking-Pass, a remnant of a once prosperous farm which has been destroyed by the lava pouring from the vents of the foot hills that surround LeirhnÚkr. English travellers of casual observation have stated that this great flood of lava came from the volcano itself but if they had taken the trouble to follow the streams of lava from the farm to their source, they would have found that a deep valley runs between these foothills and the real volcano of LeirhnÚkr. This lava flowed during the years 1725, 1727, 1728 and 1729. LeirhnÚkr was active at the same time, hence their error in attributing this sheet of lava to the volcano. The volcano has enough havoc to its discredit without charging it with the crime of ruining the fertile plains at the north end of the lake. In 1729 an extensive tract of grazing and mowing land of rare fertility was overflowed by molten rock. Some branches of the stream entered the lake and quenched their ardent fires, one branch flowed to the northeast corner of the church and was arrested in its flow within two feet of the building. Here the stream divided into two arms and flowed around the edifice reuniting about sixty feet from the opposite corner, leaving the church entirely unharmed in the midst of the terrific heat of its fiery glow. Says Henderson, who mused at length over the incident,—

“Who knows but the effectual earnest prayer of some pious individual, or some designs of mercy, may have been the cause fixed in the eternal purpose of Jehovah for the preservation of this edifice?”

On this same farm, and at some distance from the margin of the lake, there is a deep rift in the plain, the descent into which is made with little difficulty. There is an abundance of water in the rift at a temperature of 90°F. The place is called StÓrigjÁ, Large-Rift, and is a result of prehistoric earthquake action. The rift is very deep and extends up near to the hot mountain from whence issues the hot water. The water in the bed of the chasm is clear as crystal and reflects most beautifully the narrow streak of sky and the flower encrusted walls. Here the wild geranium and ferns grow abundantly, almost tropically, on the walls and in the clefts of the rocks. It was a novel experience to take a swim deep down in the crust of the earth in this hot water of emerald hue, to look up the chasm and see the towering ridges wreathed with rising steam and then to turn about and gaze towards the snow-capped peaks beyond the other end of the rift. The bath is invigorating and puts vigor and elasticity into the body to such a degree that it is noticeable for hours afterwards. It has been thought to be strongly radio-active.

No journey to ReykjahliÐ would be complete without a visit to the small island of SlÚtness, one of the extinct craters in the lake. It is a paradise for ducks. Having obtained permission of the farmer at GrimstaÐir, Grim’s-Farm, who owns the island, we rowed out to the island accompanied by the farmer and Ólafur. Such a place for ducks we had never seen; they breed in thousands on the small islands in the lake and in the retired creeks, but the island of SlÚtness is one great nest for ducks. The farmer told us that he had already taken over 13,000 eggs from the island that season, and had left sufficient for breeding purposes. These eggs are packed in water-glass for winter consumption. One may walk across the island in three minutes with ease and this makes the number of birds seem all the larger. During the nesting season it is not possible to step anywhere without taking precaution not to tread upon the birds. Here one may see the Golden Eyed Duck, Clangula Islandica, in all its glory, lift it from the nest for photographing and return it without any apparent disturbance to the bird. The eider duck, Somateria Mollissima Dresseri, is abundant on this island, though usually seeking the sea coast during the nesting season. The island itself, even if the birds were missing, is charming. It is circular in form, with the crater portion filled with water to the level of the lake. It is in this water that the ducklings take their first swimming exercises. In many places it was literally covered with the puffy brown balls that darted hither and yon amid the loud scolding of the numerous mothers in their efforts to keep the different families from getting inextricably mixed. Around the margin of the basin there is a remarkable plant society with numerous members, wonderful for this high latitude, above Lat. 65°-30´. The mountain ash and Arctic willow form dense thickets near the margin of the pool and close to the water the Angelica, Angelica officinalis, stands to a height of five feet and when crushed fills the air with the fragrance of its oil. This plant grows luxuriantly on many portions of the lake shore as well as on the islands and it is highly prized by the inhabitants. The list of plants which we collected here is too long to give in full. There were over thirty specimens of flowering plants, among which we noticed the violets in dense mats, vigorous geraniums, Geranium maculatum, with larger and deeper colored blossoms than in New England, dandelions and arnica in great profusion, asters, marigolds and wild pinks. This island will yield a good deal of information to the botanist interested in Ecology and in the variation of species.

The house at ReykjahliÐ, is an ancient one built of turf and stone with the usual turf roof, covered with grass in a flourishing condition. In front of the house is the only windmill that I have seen in Iceland. The sails are of galvanized iron and laid on the yards in squares like the glass in a window. The mill is a small affair and is used to grind barley and rye for the use of the family. No grain is raised in the country but it is all imported from Europe and ground as needed. The entrance to the house, like the one described in the chapter on Hekla, is through a hallway with an age-trodden floor. The guest room is finished in wood and we found it neat and clean. We are glad to report this state of cleanliness because the English writers tell strange tales about the uncleanliness of this house and its vermin-infested guest room. The people at the farm spoke no English but they waited upon us with the customary Icelandic cordiality and we thoroughly enjoyed the several meals prepared especially for our table. The trout came fresh from the lake and the prime eggs from ducks’ nests on the islands.

One day I found a magnificent specimen of an edible mushroom, Lycoperdon giganteum, and to the horror of the people on the farm I requested that it be cooked. This specimen was ten inches in diameter, hard, white and in prime condition. It had been long since we had tasted mushrooms and our vegetable diet had been a sparing one since we left the steamer, so I persisted, through Ólafur, that “the Americans really mean that they wish this mushroom cooked and they will eat it.” Our directions were carefully followed and the Lycoperdon came to the table well prepared and in full flavor. What consternation it created in the kitchen we will never know, save that there was much talking there and uproarious laughter in that department during the cooking process. The maiden who brought it to the table came in with a blushing face and ill-concealed laughter at some remarks that followed as she left the kitchen. It certainly was delicious and after we had dipped deeply into the contents of the tureen, Ólafur was persuaded to try it and the farmer standing in the doorway looked aghast when he saw Ólafur eat it. Ólafur pronounced it good and invited the farmer to try it but the latter shook his head in a manner to convince us that he had no idea of being so unwise as to eat such a thing. On the following morning when I called for the remainder, the response was,—“it is all gone.” Whether they threw it away or whether it was eaten after consultation with Ólafur I will never know for a certainty but I believe that it was eaten, also I believe that every sizable Lycoperdon growing on this farm in the future is destined for the stew pan with real cream.

We tarried at the farm for three days and during this time we had every possible attention paid to our comfort. The farmer always came to our room during meals and took coffee with us and smoked a cigar at the end. He always proffered his snuff horn to me but I was impolite enough to refuse this courtesy. Snuff taking is universal among the men. When two men meet upon the trail, whether they know each other or not, they salute, each brings out the snuff horn and the horns are exchanged. A little is then poured upon the back of the left wrist from which it is snuffed up the right and then the left nostril. One or two violent sneezes follow, each man trying to sneeze the louder in compliment to the finer quality of the other’s snuff, though it often happens that both horns were filled out of the same jar in the store. The sneezing over, they again shake hands, salute and ride their several ways.