During the summer day Akureyri is a busy place. It is the emporium of the north, the resort of the fishermen from the northern waters and the place where the farmers of the north of Iceland exchange their produce for European supplies. The city is comfortably situated at the head of the longest fiord in Iceland. There is one street that runs between the water and the high hill towards the west. The population is about 1,500. There are several shops and good stores, a public library. Two newspapers are published in the city. There is a high school and an agricultural college. One baker in the city is also a photographer and there one may purchase a photograph or a cruller over the same counter.

At the upper end of the street there is a commodious and well constructed church. Several of the front yards boast fine clumps of mountain ash; one of these tree clumps is the pride of the city, as it has attained a considerable growth, a remarkable size for this exposure and high latitude. Behind the street on the steep hillside, patches of potatoes and turnips checker the entire bank of the fiord for a mile or more. It is a pleasing picture when contrasted with the grimness of the ice-covered ridges beyond.

There is a spacious hotel, long kept by an eccentric Dane by the name of Jensen. It has recently changed hands. I have often heard it stated that he had no regular scale of prices but charged his guests according to his likes or dislikes. If the guest was winning, the genial Dane reduced the charge; but if the guest had been disagreeable, or in any way did not appeal to the fancy of the proprietor, then the price was raised. Whatever the truth of the report may be, one thing is certain, the host was genial, kept a good house, cared for his guests, and the prices, according to my experience, were reasonable. It is possible that his philosophy was correct, that the guest who makes unnecessary demands or is difficult to please should be the one to pay the extras, while the guest who takes what is provided, makes no special demands, considers the local conditions which obtain and demands no special service for himself at the expense of other guests, should be favored in the reckoning. I think Jensen’s method is correct. How he regarded us I do not know; suffice it to state that we had a good room with two beds and excellent food in a private dining room with the best of attention and that our bill for twenty-four hours was only the equivalent of two dollars for both of us.

There was one exception to our comfort at this hostelry, but this can not be charged to the eccentricity of the landlord. My bed seemed comfortable when I retired, but long before I went to sleep I found a hard bunch in the mattress that persisted in getting between my shoulders no matter how I twisted and turned. It was a narrow bed and afforded me no retreat from the offending bunch. I rose, stripped the bed, instituted a search and finally ripped open the mattress at the corner, worked that lump to the slit and pulled out a rooster’s head with the longest bill that was ever presented to me in Iceland. It had been pecking my shoulders persistently in spite of the fact that this rooster had fought his last fight many years since. If I had damaged the cover a little, I reasoned that I had avenged the sleeplessness of many a former occupant of this couch and was rendering a good service to future guests.

Akureyri is the home of the venerable poet, Matthias JÖckumsson, born in 1833, a lyric poet of the highest rank, who has also written excellent drama. It was our pleasure one day while fording the HeraÐsvÖtn, District-Waters, to meet him. Riding off the little ferry he came to us with hat in hand and his white locks flowing in the wind. Holding out his right hand to us he said,—

“Welcome, strangers, to Iceland!”

At the far end of the city, in fact a continuation of the one street, is Oddeyri, Point of Land, under a different political jurisdiction from Akureyri. It is a busy place in the whaling and herring season and contains a large store operated by the Danish-Icelandic Trading Company. It has two banks and has recently become the center of the shipping interests by reason of its new wharf which enables steamers to discharge cargo without the use of lighters. The curing and rendering establishments in this town will repay a visit, unless one has strong olefactory objections. When the wind blows up the fiord there is no doubt as to the use to which the buildings on the extreme point of land north of the pier are put.

Leaving Akureyri we followed the west bank of the grand EyjarfjÖrÐr till we arrived at the HÖrgÁ, Howe-River, whence we looked across the level meadows to the former location of the Agricultural College at MÖÐruvellir, Madder-Valley. The college is now located at Akureyri. It is sometimes a surprise to learn that there is such a college close to the Arctic Circle, but it has a good reason for its existence. There is need for training the farmers in methods of cattle, horse and sheep breeding, especially the latter, that they may win the best possible success in their struggle with adverse conditions. JÓn Hjaltalin at one time was the head master of this school and he also did service in Edinburgh, Scotland, as a librarian.

The view across the valley is extensive and charming because the rugged and ragged features of the usual Icelandic landscape are softened by the river winding through the undulating meadows which roll upwards to the distance-softened ridges, while yet beyond, the crumbling cinder cones melt into the whiteness of the lofty Vindheima JÖkull, Wind-Home-Glacier, and flashing in the sun,—

We stopped for lunch beside a singing brook flowing down from the ridge on our left and springing into the HÖrgÁ. The grass was in excellent condition and the ponies grazed as if they had knowledge of the poor quality of this necessity and its scarcity during the following days. The cotton grass spread its sheets of pearly white around us, forget-me-nots and marguerites, the wild arnica and the violets reveled in the glory of their bloom. We ate our lunch and reclined upon the grass in full enjoyment of the scene and recalled the former importance of this valley. It is as beautiful to-day as when the Vikings first entered it. Since their time no blasting volcano with fiery breath has scorched its foliage nor poured its glinting lava in destructive streams over the meadows and humble homes. The days of feudal strife passed with the Christian education of that sturdy race and the peace of the Cross now rests upon the valley like the “shadow of a great rock in a weary land.”

The time of its literary importance passed with the decline of its Abbey and the passing of Sira JÓn Thorlakson, the Icelandic Milton. Across the river, and shaded by a noble clump of the mountain ash, stands the home of this venerable poet and priest, BaegisÁ. A century ago he translated Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, portions of Shakespeare, masterpieces of German and Scandinavian literature into the Icelandic. Besides being a translator, he composed a large amount of Icelandic poetry in the Eddic phraseology which competent judges say equalled and often surpassed the masterpieces of the ancient scalds. He was sorely fettered by poverty. When commenting upon the high morality of his race and the great freedom from the use of intoxicants by his people at that time he said,—

“Our poverty is the bulwark of our happiness.”

Again, speaking of poverty, the common lot of most poets of all lands, and in all ages, he says, literally from one of his poems,—

“Ever since I came into this world, I have been wedded to poverty, who has hugged me to her bosom these seventy winters all but two; whether we shall ever be divorced here below, is only known to Him who joined us together.”

From our vantage point we looked down upon three beautiful valleys with as many rivers joining to form the valley of the HÖrgÁ and its mighty stream. These are the HÖrgÁrdalr, Öxnadalr and BaegisÁdalr. The mountains rise to an elevation 4000 feet above the valley, capped with snow or perpetual ice, their slopes slashed into wild ravines and terraced with lava cliffs down which course numerous cascades from the melting snows. It is a fair and peaceful scene, this at our feet: it is a grand and awesome sight, that greets the lifted eye.

Fastening forget-me-nots into the manes of the ponies we resumed our ride up the valley and turned into the Öxnadalr, Ox-Valley. It is a fine illustration of a glacial valley. The cross section is nearly a semicircle and the sides are deeply grooved; the glacial carving is much more pronounced than that of the lower end of SeyÐisfjÖrÐr. We stopped over night at ThverÁ, Tributary-River, in a humble home perched upon the steep hillside above the river and just below the ice cliffs.

Across the river rise the Hraundrangar, Lava Pillars, which tower in a long chain of spires above the castellated ridge, a prominent feature in the landscape for miles up and down the valley. High up between the ridges there is a sheet of water which pours out through a small rift in the nearer ridge and falls into the valley as if some Moses had smitten the lava wall with his rod of wrath.

We enjoyed our stay at ThverÁ and experienced several things of interest. It is an ancient farm located on the trail through the defile where Icelanders have passed between the east and west for a thousand years. A newly wedded couple had just taken up their abode under the paternal roof in this historic spot and were beginning the problems of life where generations of their ancestors had solved the same enigmas with the variations which the succeeding centuries have added. They were attentive to our necessities with the inborn hospitality of the race but there was something in the atmosphere that revealed the newness of the work and the shyness of the wedded couple added much to our amusement.

During the week the rapidly melting snows had carried away the bridge over the ThverÁ and we found it necessary to cross the torrent on a stringer. With a little coaxing all the ponies walked across except our faithful black pack pony. Vexed at the delay in removing his packing boxes, and anxious to be with his companions grazing on the opposite bank, he ran rapidly up and down the stream, repeatedly trying the river for a place to ford with his load which was still fastened to the saddle. Ólafur was on the opposite side resaddling the other ponies. Old Black became frantic, shook himself repeatedly, ran sideways into a projecting rock in the canyon and freed himself from his load; he then ran to the stringer, crossed and grazed contentedly with his mates and in positive forgetfulness of the wreckage he had left strewn upon the opposite shore. The cases had burst open and their contents were scattered along the sides of the river and some of the items were actually rescued with difficulty from the running water. Fortunately Old Black was not carrying my photograph outfit that morning as was his usual custom. Again in 1913 in my crossing of the interior of Iceland I had this same horse and of all the pack ponies which I have used during my four different journeys I have never found one equal in value to this one. His peculiar trait was to pick a trail for himself and his intelligence in this work was noteworthy. He was always given the most valuable portion of my load and whether in the bogs, on the rough mountains where there were no trails or in the fording of difficult rivers he was always worthy of the trust I imposed in him. The one accident mentioned above is the only one he has had in his long years of service as a pack pony.

Clumps of mountain ash, in Europe called rowan tree, here and there adorn a sheltered spot and their association with the angular lava recalled to my mind the Lay of Geirod, a kind of parable concerning the fires of Iceland. Greatly abridged it runs as follows:—

“Loki, the beguiler, flew away one day in quest of adventures in Frigga’s falcon dress. He flew to a huge castle over the sea and alighted on a great castle and looked into the hall. Geirod saw him and ordered him to be caught. The slave climbed the wall with difficulty and Loki laughed to see the labor the man made. He resolved not to fly till the slave had nearly caught him. He waited too long, as he spread his wings to mount to the next height and lead on his pursuer, the slave caught him by the feet and took him to Geirod, the giant, who, when he looked at him believed him to be a human and not a real bird. He bade him answer but Loki was silent. Loki could only regain his liberty by promising the giant that he would lure Asa Thor to this fastness without his hammer. Geirod was sure he could destroy Thor if he could meet him without Thor having his wonderful hammer. Loki beguiled Thor to visit Geirod without his hammer; but a friendly giantess, Grida, Grace, in whose house Thor lodged, knowing the plot of Loki and Geirod, loaned Thor her staff and iron gauntlets.”

“Thor discovered the plot and in trying to escape waded the sea, whereupon GjÁlf, (din or roar of ocean), Geirod’s daughter, flung the waves at Thor. Thor cast a rock at GjÁlf and he never missed when he cast a stone, and thus with stone hurling and with the aid of his staff and gauntlets he reached the land. He caught hold of a friendly ‘rowan’ and climbed out of the water.”

Because of this myth the mountain ash has ever since been sacred to Thor.

Again we read:—

“When Thor had won his way into the fire castle,” (this doubtless refers to the fiery lava chambers which occur in many parts of Iceland), “he was invited to take a seat. No sooner had he done so than the seat flew to the roof of the hall, where Thor would have been crushed had he not pushed back with his staff which the giantess had given him. He pressed back so effectively that he slew the two water-storm daughters of Geirod, who had tried to blow him into the heavens.”

In this parable the reference is undoubtedly to the Geysir. Thor’s next foe was a volcano.

“Geirod now challenged Thor to fight in the hall lined with fire. Thor caught the red hot weapons in his iron gloves and hurled them back to Geirod, who vainly crouched beside a pillar to defend himself. But Thor crushed this Demon of Underground Fire back into the black rock and flung the fire caverns wide open to the day.”

Such is the ancient legend but it shows how legends are founded upon facts or conditions, which may be lost for centuries, though the legends may remain for us to scoff at when we do not know the foundation. In this instance we see the forces of water and fire contending with humans, a never ending contest between the forces of destruction and the powers of reason and intelligence.

At the head of the Öxnadalr we stopped at the post shelter for coffee and cakes and tinned tongue. The poor little farm is not worthy of the name of a farm. It is just a bit of mountain herbage at the borders of the snows and screes and the one family could not survive were is not for the assistance of the government in order that a shelter for the post carriers and chance travellers against the mountain storms may be provided.

I swapped a pony with the farmer and paid him a margin of two dollars. The horse I traded was the same that I had received in a similar trade at LjÓsavatn. The farmer carefully examined the marks in the ears of the pony and stated that it was raised on this same farm and had now got home. While I am not a horse trader and know none of the intricacies of the game and had no way to learn the Icelandic methods, the satisfaction I got from this pony convinced me that the best of the bargain was mine. While the Icelander is noted for his square dealing and truthfulness I had often wondered what he would be like in a horse trade. The pony I traded had a quarter crack and I told Ólafur to point this out to the farmer. Ólafur shook his head and said,—

“He can see it as well as you.”

Later I asked Ólafur about this and enquired how he could reconcile it with the proverbial integrity of his people. He replied,—

“But this was a horse trade and every man must see what he is buying when he purchases a horse.”

In connection with this there was another incident of sharpness that came to my attention in the summer of 1913, though it may have been done more from the love of a joke than from any intention to defraud. The Icelander is very fond of a joke, especially when at the expense of some one else. The steamship company trading around the coast advertises “to return empties free of charge.” A farmer in Borg sold a cow to a man in Reykjavik with the understanding that the skin was to be returned to him. The man in Reykjavik tied up the skin and shipped it to the farmer in Borg. The steamship company charged the farmer for carrying the bundle. The farmer replied,—

“But there is no charge. You took the cow to Reykjavik and you offer to return ‘empties free of charge’ and if a cow skin is not an empty, what is it?”

Up and up we climbed to an elevation of about 2,000 feet to the height of land, the watershed between SkagafjÖrÐr, Cape-Fiord, and EyjafjÖrÐr. The ride down the valley towards the west is wild in the extreme. The trail passes through a long mountain pasture where we encountered about one hundred young ponies, thence along the edge of a chasm so deep that the tumbling of the water in the bed came up to us only as a murmur. On our right rose impassable cliffs and rubble screes and it was along this talus of rolling material, composed of disintegrating lava and sand, that we made our way. There are places where a false step or a small avalanche would sweep horse and rider into the depths of the chasm. When the canyon widened, the green-white of the water flashed up to us like masses of liquid emerald. The trail improved as we descended and the declivity became less precipitous; having a long distance ahead of us we gave the ponies a free bit and away we went in a joyful gallop down the grade. We had been discussing the prospects of a tumble a few moments before when on the edge of the cliff but now all fear had vanished. My pony stumbled on some small stones and I shot over his head much to the amusement of my companion. Mrs. Russell was following at this point. Scarcely had I regained my seat in the saddle and reined in to the rear when her pony stumbled and threw her in a similar manner. She was not hurt. This was my second and her first tumble during the two summers of riding, so she held up two fingers to me from time to time. She was laughing at my poor horsemanship and I pushed on to the head of the train. A great raven perched on a lava point was croaking excitedly and it seemed to me that he said, “saw-you, saw-you, saw-you!” Turning to look at this fine black bird I saw my brave companion trying to remount from a second tumble without letting me know of it. She never forgave that raven, for if he had not notified me of the mishap she might still have held those two mocking fingers at me.

Rapidly we descended to the lower valley and forded the rapid river. Ravine after ravine opened into the valley, each bringing its turbulent stream to swell the great river far below the trail. We lingered here and there to examine the rocks and I was surprised at the outcroppings of copper in the form of copper carbonate. Zeolites of great beauty are imbedded in the lava and I have often longed for a day or two to explore some of those ravines that lead from this pass. There are indications of considerable copper in two places in Iceland and since Iceland has unlimited water power for the electrical treatment of ore some one will soon ascertain the quantity of copper present.

As the valley became wider it turned towards the northwest and we caught glimpses of tiny homes on the opposite side of the river. Desolate homes are these among the mountains, far away from neighbors. The farmers eke out a bare living with the produce of their sheep. Down came the wind in mighty gusts bringing rain and mists that shut out all distances. The winds came directly from the ice sheets and as the clouds shut out the sun the rain soon turned to a driving sleet. We were tired, cold and hungry and thoroughly in need of shelter. The top of a tiny spire showed itself through the mist below and I thought, “Miklebaer at last.” Ólafur dashed our hopes by saying that this farm with its excellent buildings and its hospitable pastor was two hours ride beyond the metal church below us. He urged us forward but I refused as it was not possible to ride further, except in a case of life or death. So we reined into the tÚn of SilfrastaÐir, Silver-Stead, and while we were dismounting a man, blind with age, tottered towards us on his cane and extended his trembling hand and in the Saga phrase, “he greeted us well.” That little tumbled down home in the mountain pass, that small bed in a cupboard in the wall, how good they looked to us! That Icelandic welcome! We had received it on the prosperous farms and in the city, yes in the more favored portions of the land, even in the home of the Governor, but never before, never since, has any abode seemed so pleasant and all other welcomes at home and abroad shrink in value when compared with the welcome and the cordial hospitality of this poor blind man of SilfrastaÐir, who gave us the best he had and bade us “God speed” on the morrow.

During the night our ponies ran away and it was a long time before Ólafur found them. They were going, according to their habit, before the wind and were nearly down to Miklebaer when the guide found them. While he was pony hunting I repaired to the little kitchen, if such it may be called, and over a fire of dried sheep manure made some coffee and with the provisions in our packing boxes we made a good breakfast. We got away at ten thirty and soon after noon arrived at Miklebaer and turned into the tÚn enclosure to visit the grave of Frederick W. W. Howell, F. R. G. S. Howell was the author of the Pen Pictures of Iceland. He had spent many summers in the country and knew it the best of any Englishman. His illustrations are works of art and his descriptions of natural scenery are faithful and full of appreciation. Howell was the first to make the ascent of the Öraefa JÖkull, 6,400 feet in height and the highest peak in Iceland. This was in August 1891. He lost his life in fording the HeraÐsvÖtn, District-Waters, a broad, swift and deep river which flows through the valley of the SkagafjÖrÐr. The place was opposite the farm of Miklebaer. This farm belongs to the church and within its cemetery the unfortunate Englishman is buried. A marble memorial marks his resting place and bears the following inscription:—

In Loving Memory
of
Frederick W. W. Howell,
F. R. G. S.
Who Was Called to His Rest
From the HeraÐsvÖtn River
3d. July 1901
Aged 44.
“Asleep in Jesus, Oh What Rest!
So them also which sleep in Jesus
Will God bring with Him.”

The pastor invited us into his study and refreshed us with coffee and cakes and conversed with us in German and broken English. He had a good library of English, German and Icelandic works. Our stay was longer than we intended, for Ólafur, (this time it was a young lady and not the ponies that caused the delay), found a fair maiden of pleasing conversation. We finally started without the guide and later when he had overtaken us at the fiord and I teased him about his tardiness he stated that the maiden asked him to wait while she wrote a letter to a friend of hers in Reykjavik and requested him to be the messenger. It must have been a long letter. Had he collected as long a letter from each of the attractive maidens at the many farms where we called in the summer of 1910 he would have had a good sized mail by the time he reached the capital.

On arrival at the ferry we found a good boat into which we loaded four of the ponies at a time with the packing cases. It was here that we met the venerable poet, Matthias Jochumsson. Remounting we crossed a wonderfully rich grass plain. It is in this valley that the best ponies of Iceland are bred. Later in the day we arrived at ViÐimÝri, Wide-Bog. Here we were fortunate in witnessing a pony-fair at which hundreds of ponies changed hands. They are gathered from the mountains for sale to the exporters and it is here that the Icelandic gentleman comes for his private saddle pony.

Steadily we climbed the mountain in a driving wind with some rain. The wind blew cold from off the SkagafjÖrÐr, Cape-Fiord. The ocean was clear and an excellent view was had of Drangey, Lonely-Island. It was on this island that Grettir, the Strong, the favorite hero of Iceland, met his death at the hands of his enemies. He had been an outlaw for many years. Sometimes he made his home in the lava waste between Hoffs JÖkull and LÁng JÖkull. I visited the cave in 1913 which is marked by several cairns. At one time he lived at Arnavatn, Eagle-Lake and at another he dwelt in the remote fastness of ThÓrisdalr at the south end of LÁng JÖkull. In the summer of 1913 I went to the entrance to this fastness. It is the finest retreat for an outlaw that any country could possibly provide in its natural configurations. The Saga of Grettir relates that he found his way over the lava wastes of Skjalbreith, Broad-Shield, by sighting the summit of Skjalbreith through a hole in a block of lava and noting the intervening points of prominence. In the old days the youth of Iceland used to assemble on the level grass plain at the extreme northern end of Thingvellir during the annual meeting of the Althing to hold their sports. At one time Grettir came down from ThÓrisdalr in disguise and entered into the wrestling. One by one he threw all the champions from the different sections of Iceland and did it with apparent ease. The maidens sat upon the high conglomerate knob overlooking the plain and saw with sorrow their respective favorites beaten in the feats of strength. The seat upon which they sat is known as Meijarsoeti, Maidens’-Seat. It was not till Grettir left the arena and climbed the narrow pass which runs upward beside Meijarsoeti that it was discovered that the unknown wrestler was in truth Grettir, though some of the wise ones had hinted as much.

The story of Grettir’s life on Drangey is of great interest but too long for a full recital. If the reader desires to know more of the real hero of Iceland in the old days and the one most often mentioned at the present time he should read the Grettir Saga. It will give an account of his wanderings, his conflict with the ghost and his harder struggles with the men who desired to take his life because he had refused to leave his native land after the Althing had outlawed him with the greater outlawry. Drangey is an island in the middle of the great fiord and the sides are so steep that it is possible to ascend only at one place. With two men he took up his abode here and lived upon the sheep which the farmers had put upon the rock for summer pasture. The Saga relates that on a Christmas night his fire went out and that he swam to the mainland to replenish it. He entered the house by the shore and was recognized by an old woman. Several men, the foes of Grettir, were making merry in an adjoining room, but the old woman pitied him and, because it was Christmas night, gave him the coals and allowed him to depart in peace. Placing the fire in a small kettle, he swam back to Drangey and rekindled the fire in his stone stove.

The temperature was only three degrees above freezing when we descended the western slope of the mountain and arrived at the farm, BolstaÐarhliÐ, Wood-Farm-Slope. There was a long delay in getting supper but it came at last in the shape of a hot lamb stew and we were provided with comfortable beds. We were told that in the morning we could have oatmeal porridge, and, since it had been many days that we had had anything of this nature, we looked forward with pleasure to the breakfast. Having a long ride before us on the morrow, we solemnly arranged with Ólafur to start by eight-thirty. He agreed to have the ponies and the cases in readiness. We had often held these solemn councils but a stray pony, a broken pack saddle, a lost shoe or some other quite common mishap had always prevented our starting before one to three hours after the appointed time. This morning it was not the fault of Ólafur and there were none of the usual causes of delay. It was that oatmeal porridge and even the placid guide was disturbed at the delay. Well, at ten we sat down to enjoy that oatmeal with real thick, sweet cream in abundance. The combination was delicious as the oatmeal was thoroughly cooked. Then, I pulled out a long black hair and carefully concealed the presence of it from my companion. Soon I found another and this one was white. I could no longer refrain from communicating my discoveries and so I stated:—

“I have discovered exactly how long this oatmeal was cooked.”

“Well, how long was it cooked and why this smile?”

I replied,—“The woman who started to prepare this porridge had black hair, but when she had finished it her hair had turned white.”

After a short ride we came to the BlandÁ, Mingled-Waters, which was so swollen that it was necessary for us to proceed to the mouth of the river at BlÖnduÓs where there is a substantial bridge. The ride from this trading village south to the farm, Hnausar, Rough-Ground, was in a hard rain with the thermometer at one degree above freezing and with occasional gusts of snow that swept down from the ridge at our right with the howling wind. With our heads bowed low over the saddle and the wind at our backs we saw little of the valley save that at the feet of the ponies. The wind increased and the storm drove up the valley from the Arctic Ocean with sufficient violence to drive from our minds everything save thoughts of a shelter. At seven-thirty we halted at the gate of the tÚn while Ólafur sought the bondÉ to ask the customary questions about food, shelter and grass for the ponies. I have never had the request refused but politeness demands that the traveller remain without the turf wall until the request is made of the farmer, or if he is absent, of his wife or oldest son. The Icelander within his turf wall is like a baron in his castle and as such must be recognized. Once the questions are asked the request is granted and the traveller then is placed at ease with all the freedom that is necessary.

The good wife built a fire of turf and sheep manure in the tall Norwegian stove in the guest room, took all our wet clothing to her kitchen to dry and prepared for us a satisfying and tasty supper. She kept the fire replenished till midnight and I remember no fire that seemed so good as this one. Before the fire was built and we stood about the cold stove with chattering teeth I knew something of how Grettir felt when he discovered that all his coals had turned to ashes out there on Drangey.

It rained and snowed by turns all night and at eleven when I looked out upon the farm the haycocks wore white capes. A small bedroom opened out of the guest room and the water came through its turf roof in many places in streams, in fact everywhere except upon the bed and why that was exempt I do not know.

The morning broke cold and windy with falling snow and the uncut grass protruded its emerald green through the white blanket. We looked towards the south, listened to the gusty wind, glanced at the lowering heavens and returned to the heated stove. It was Sunday and we decided to let the ponies have a day of rest. They, poor beasts, were not grazing but stood with drooping heads and tails turned towards the wind. The ponies of Iceland! In no other place in the world will horses thrive under such treatment as they receive in this land. They are ridden or driven with their heavy packs all day, often upon grassless mountain slopes, fording deep and cold rivers, often swimming, often laboring in long reaches of sand or plunging in grassy bogs. When the work of the day is finished they are simply turned adrift to care for themselves. They are never groomed, never given any grain, never covered with a blanket; they have no sheltering stalls. They are simply turned loose in the storm as well as in the sunshine, or, into what they dread worse than any storm, among the swarms of savage midges. When the grass is good they are happy; they never knew any other life. What steed of English or American stables would care to become an Icelandic pony, to work all day for the chance to graze all night, and then, as I have so often witnessed, have their master end the days work in a dreary sand waste where willow leaves and scanty sedges offer the only forage?

The day passed rapidly and pleasantly. The farmer came to our sitting room to take coffee with us at noon and then invited me to go and see his pet saddle horse, a magnificent stallion. This I did with interest as I had never seen a stallion among the thousands of ponies I had found in the country. He saddled him and showed his different paces for some time about the tÚn and then Ólafur was invited to ride him. I photographed the farmer on his steed and then I was invited to ride the stallion. It is a mark of special favor for any farmer to allow another to mount his private pony; and it is also a breach of etiquette to offer to mount another’s pony. This is a custom that clings from the pagan days. We read in the Saga of Hrafnkell, Frey’s Priest, how one man met his death by mounting the favorite horse of another. The story is as follows, but greatly abbreviated:—

Einarr engaged himself to watch the sheep of the Priest of Frey, Hrafnkell, and his master said to him:—

“I’ll make a short bargain with thee. Thy business shall be to watch fifteen ewes at the mountain dairy and gather and carry home faggots for summer fuel. On these terms thou shalt take service with me for two ‘half-years.’ But one thing must I give thee, as all my shepherds to understand,—‘Freymane’ goes grazing in the valley with his band of mares; thou shalt take care of him winter and summer, but I warn thee of one thing, namely, that thou never be on his back on any condition whatever, for I am bound by a mighty vow to slay the man that ever should have a ride on him. There are twelve mares with him; whichever one of these thou mayest want, night or day, is at your service. Do now as I tell thee and mind the old saw,—‘No blame is borne by those who warn.’ Now thou knowest that I have said.”

Einarr replied:—“I trust I am under no such luckless spell as to ride on a horse which is forbidden, least of all when there are other horses at my disposal.”

Briefly, Einarr went to work, the time came when the sheep wandered; a rain and mist came down; the ewes had been absent many days; Einarr went down to the grass where the mares were grazing taking his saddle cloth and bridle, thinking to catch one and ride over the hills in search of the lost sheep. He could not catch one of the mares though he had spent all the morning; but “Freymane was as quiet as if stuck buried in the ground.” Einarr though that his master surely would never know, so he mounted the forbidden pony and “rode until middle eve,” and “he rode him long and hard.” “The horse was all dripping even every hair on him; bespattered he was all over with mire, and mightily blown. Twelve times he rolled himself, and then he set up a mighty neighing, and then set off at a quick pace down along the beaten track.” … “Einarr ran after him but could not lay hand on him.” … “He ran all the way along the valley never stopping till he came to AÐalbÓl. At that time Hrafnkell sat at table, and when the horse came before the door it neighed aloud.”

“He went out and saw Freymane and spoke to him; ‘I am sorry to see thee in this kind of a plight, my pet; however thou hadst all thy wits about thee in coming thus to let me know what was the matter; due revenge shall be taken for this.’”

“In the morning Hrafnkell saddled a horse and rode up to the dairy; he had his axe in his hand but no other weapons about him. At this time Einarr had just driven the ewes into the pen, and lay on the top of the wall counting the sheep; but the women were busy milking. They all greeted Hrafnkell and he asked how they got on. Einarr answered; ‘I have no good speed myself, for no less than thirty ewes were missing for a week, though now I have found them again.’ Hrafnkell said he had no fault to find with things of that kind, ‘it has not happened so often as might have been expected that thou hast lost the ewes. But has not something worse befallen than that? Didst thou not have a ride on Freymane yesterday?’

“Einarr replied,—‘I can not gainsay that utterly.’”

“Why didst thou ride on this one horse which was forbidden thee, while there were plenty of others on which thou art free to ride? Now this one trespass I could have forgiven thee, if I had not used words of such great earnestness already. And yet thou hast manfully confessed thy guilt.”

“But by reason of the belief that those who fulfill their vows never come to grief, he leaped off his horse, sprang upon Einarr, and dealt him his death blow.”

In the afternoon the Doctor from BlÖnduÓs arrived at the farm to pay a social call and the farmer brought him to our sitting room, while the eldest daughter served us with the usual social beverage in Iceland. Two pleasant hours passed during which we gained much information about Icelandic customs, local history and legends.

The rain came down still harder in the evening but we welcomed it as it promised warmer weather and bare ground on the morrow. So much water had come into our bed room that it was only by judicious side stepping and walking on the tops of the packing boxes that we were able to reach the bed without a cold and muddy footbath.

There are three things in Iceland that have never been counted:—The islands in BreiÐifjÖrÐr, Broad-Fiord, the lakes of ArnavatnsheiÐi, Eagle-Lake-Heath, and the conical hills of Vatnsdalr, Water-Dale. Our stopping place, Hnausar, which signifies rough ground, is in the midst of these peculiar hills and in the center of the valley. We spent three days among the hills and found them of marked interest to the geologist. Hundreds of acres are covered with the cones rising from the plain to an elevation of from twenty-five to over one hundred feet. Oftentimes they are so near together that their bases are confluent and thus seem to be double peaked in a few instances. Geologists have given different reasons for this queer formation. One states that they are of glacial origin and were left when the ice melted in the form of moraines; another is of the opinion that they are the results of great avalanches upon the glacier, which in melting left them here. Another states that they are merely the weathered fragments of a local lava flow. I spent a day in their examination and so will give my reasons for rejecting the causes assigned by these gentlemen and substitute my own conclusions in order that future scientists interested in the geology of Iceland may confirm or refute according as they weigh the evidence.

They can not be glacial moraine as there is no evidence of any glacial action in any way upon any of the fragments and it must be remembered that as compared with glaciated areas in other lands Icelandic glaciation is as if it occurred yesterday. In fact glaciers are still covering many square miles of the table land. There is no evidence of any water erosion on any of the stones. They could not have been avalanches upon the ice sheet for there are no mountains near at hand from which such masses of material could have come. And if it is argued that the avalanches were at a distance it turns the problem once more into that of the moraine. The character of the valley and its low mountains will not permit our reason to accept either the glacial or the avalanche theory.

There is no evidence of any great lava flow either in plugs, intrusive sheets or surface flow, neither in the necessary abundance of scoriae and blistered fragments to warrant such a theory. And if there were, we must then explain why these are “cones” and not craters with blistered rims and solid slopes. We must turn to MÝvatn for the explanation. It is my opinion that deep seated and violent subterranean explosions of considerable frequency took place here, as in the case of Hverfjall the giant explosion crater of MÝvatn. It heaved up the crust in crumpled masses, mingling the different basalt formations of ancient flows which lay in superimposed sheets. How else can one account for the many kinds of lava in a single cone, the absence of blistering and cones in place of craters? I have performed an interesting experiment in the laboratory upon this theory and with results that seem to verify the above conclusions. A two liter copper beaker was chosen. It was half filled with clay dust of different colors in layers. This dust was prepared by thoroughly drying the clays, pulverizing and then dusting it through a double fold of cheese cloth. This gave me particles large enough for my miniature experiment. The beaker was then slowly heated from the bottom. After due process of time with the increase of heat the subterranean gases, in this case air in the dust, expanded. At first with slightly audible bumps and a faint trembling of the surface. These increased until the action became violent and small mounds were thrown up which formed true cones with mingled colors from the different depths.

Vatnsdalr is a fair and pleasant valley, when the sun shines. No wonder that it possessed a charm for the early settlers with its parallel mountain ridges of entrancing blue, its noble river expanding into fine sheets of water where trout are abundant and its fertile meadows of broad expanse. It is historic ground as well as legendary. It has known stirring days and its heroes were the bravest of any who wielded the axe and bill in the troublesome times when blood alone could recompense a personal affront or a crossed lover. A whole sheaf of Sagas relate the deeds of the men and women of Waterdale. The valley is the same as of old. The inhabitants point out the exact localities where the guest halls of the nobles stood and where their temples of sacrifice were reared to propitiate the gods of Valhalla; they show one where the champions battled for their rights, where the lovers held their trysts and the mounds where the heroes were entombed. These incidents have been handed down from generation to generation, from father to son and the stories were oft repeated in the bathstÓfa during the long winter evenings when the Arctic shore was frozen and the wind whirled the drifting snows around their turf huts.

Besides the lengthy Sagas there are numerous shorter stories that have been preserved in written form such as that of Gisli, the Outlaw; Grettir, the Strong and Glum. It is a knowledge of the Sagas and the legends that spread the charm over this valley, that leads one from the present to the past by a jump backwards of many centuries. To visit Iceland, especially the Saga Dales, in ignorance of their history would be like tramping through Scotland without any acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott, or a sojourn in London without a knowledge of Dickens.

In most countries the progress of modern life, with its inventions and the eternal scramble for the latest style in everything, has obliterated much if not all of the past and one can only obtain the colors of the former ages in the ruins of a castle or cathedral or from the written pages of the antiquary. Not so in Iceland,—farms, mountains, rivers, lakes and meadows remain the same and under the same names given to them by the first settlers, though it be ten centuries of time. No railway or canal, no public improvements, modern cities or factories have obliterated the ancient landmarks. Even the manners and dress of the people are little changed from that early day. On the ruins of the tumbled-down hut of his grandfather the grandson erects his house in the same fashion and the descendants of the first imported sheep furnish skins for shoes still tanned, cut and fashioned after the ancient model. To visit the remote dales of Iceland is to be set backward in history and fashions a thousand years.

The Waterdale Saga tells us how Ingmundr, a grand old Viking, after years of sea-roving and plundering along the shores of the southern seas settled in this valley with his followers. He had made a vow that no matter where he might roam that Norway should always remain his home. The witches of Finland prophesied that Iceland would be his resting place and so it was. At the farm called Hof, Temple, one may still trace the position of his great Scali, Banquet Hall, and there beside it winds the river where the old man lost his life. He had promised protection to a renegade who treacherously slew his benefactor. Ingmundr went to his high seat in the hall after the blow, wrapped his cloak around him and died alone. His grandson, IngÓlfr, was “the handsomest man in all the northern lands.” Here is a song written about him over 800 years ago by a little maiden who admired him:—

In the Saga of the farm of Grimstunga, Grim’s Tongue, (tunga is frequently used with reference to a narrow strip of grass land in a sand waste or between masses of lava), at the head of the valley, we find the following story of IngÓlfr:—

“An autumn feast was held at Grimstunga and a playing at the ball. IngÓlfr came to the game, and many men with him from the Dale,” (Water Dale.) “The weather was fine and the women sat out and watched the game. ValgerÐr, Ottar’s daughter, sat on the hill-side and other women with her. IngÓlfr was in the game and his ball flew far up among the girls. ValgerÐr took the ball and hid it under her cloak and bade him find it who had cast it. IngÓlfr came up and found it and bade the others go on with the game; but he played no more himself. He sat down by ValgerÐr and talked the rest of the day.”

It was the story of love that did not go smoothly for he flirted and did not propose to her father for her hand in marriage. Her father sold his farm and moved to the south. Man-slayings followed and ValgerÐr was forced by her father to marry another man when IngÓlfr deserted her for another maiden. He had many love affairs for he was inconstant. In the end he was wounded by outlaws and when dying he requested that he might be laid in the mound with his forefathers near the river path in Water Dale that “the maidens might remember him when they walked that way.”

ValgerÐr had a famous brother, HalfreÐr nicknamed VandaeÐaskald, signifying the “Troublesome Scald.” He was the favorite scald of the powerful Norwegian King, Olaf Tryggvason, who reigned from 995 to 1000 A. D. A full account of this King and of his favorite singer is given in Heimskringla by Snorri Sturlason, the Norse Historian, from which the following brief account is condensed.

HalfreÐr was a wayward youth, given to wandering and adventure, a real Viking in spirit. He was born in 968 and raised at this very farm of Haukagil, Hawk-Gulley, where the notes for this chapter were roughly penned in 1910. He was “a tall man, strong and manly looking, somewhat swarthy, his nose rather ugly, his hair brown and setting him off well.”

A little brook tumbles down from the heath behind the house, the rolling meadow reaches away to the river and beyond it the mountains rise in glorious colors in this evening light just as they did when HalfreÐr played beside this same brook as a child and IngÓlfr flirted with HalfreÐr’s sister. The turf house and the tÚn, the noisy dogs bringing up the ewes for the evening milking, the swish of the scythe in the grass and the call of the plover on the heights,—all are as in the days of old and it requires little fancy to place this sturdy youth in his old surroundings.

He was a poetical genius, a favorite of kings and a terror to his enemies. He did not so often unsheath his sword in a quarrel as he employed his stinging rhymes which cut his enemy deeper than the sharpest sword. Like his sister, HalfreÐr had his love troubles. Kolfina loved him and he reciprocated but her father chose otherwise and betrothed her to Griss, a man who had accumulated great wealth in the service of the Emperor at Constantinople. Griss was “rather elderly, short-sighted, blear-eyed;” but he could see well enough when he went to woo Kolfina that a handsome youth was kissing her at the door of the lodge. Caught by Griss in the very act, HalfreÐr shouted to him as he took his reluctant departure:—

“Thou shalt have me for a foe, Griss, if thou wilt try to make this match.”

The parents gave HalfreÐr a good scolding and ordered him away at once. As he rides away he makes this rhyme:—

Longfellow says:—

This passage shows the wide poetic license which Longfellow took in dealing with the Sagas and the Heimskringla of Snorri. Scott’s harpers were always old and gray and Longfellow infers that the Scalds were the same. The fact is that HalfreÐr did not live beyond forty years of age. He was gay and reckless as were all of his cult; he was reckless of speech even in the presence of the king. He was always ready with a song whether at the court of Olaf, in the camp, on the sea in storm or in calm or in the brunt of the fight. He was constant in love and although he married a beautiful and wealthy woman he never forgot his early love for the fair Kolfina.

King Olaf had much trouble in converting him to Christianity and in getting him to take the christening. He succeeded as we shall see from the following quotation, but HalfreÐr clung in secret to the faith of his fathers, the hope of a future life in Valhalla as we note from the many references to the old northern gods in his songs and the way in which he talks of them. So frequently did he call upon the pagan deities that Olaf often talked to him about it and mistrusted that he was not really converted to the Cross.

In 1014, after a great sea fight in which a yard arm fell and inflicted a mortal blow, HallfreÐr lay dying on board of a crippled vessel which was drifting before the gale. Still mindful of conditions around him he makes the following stave, which was translated by Miss Oswald:—

With his dying breath he chanted the following stave, showing that his early love, Kolfina, had not been forgotten during his long years of warfare and wanderings:—

Thus died in middle life one of the greatest of the Norse scalds. His had been a “troublous” life indeed. The duties of the scald were to improvise poetry on the instant, in praise of the King and in recounting the deeds of his favorite warriors in battle. He was the historian and the periodical at the same time; his utterances were respected and he was feared by prince and peasant. The scald had liberties at court and in the royal camp or on board the royal fighting ship not accorded to any other retainer.