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.

CHAPTER XIV
KRAFLA

In the early morning we mounted the best of our ponies for the toilsome ascent of Krafla, Creeping. We crossed the intervening ridge of mountains through the pass of Námaskarð, Solfatara-Pass, which is a deep defile in the volcanic range. At the base of this ridge there are spread out broad plains of multi-colored earth from which clouds of steam and sulfur gases ascend, which are visible for many miles across the lake. With caution we picked a way for the ponies amid the fumaroles and entered the pass. As far as the eye can range, this slope of the mountain is strewn with crystals of sulfur and gypsum interspersed with alum and needle zeolites in various forms. This slope is thinly crusted and perforated, like a skimmer, with orifices whence issue vile smelling gases to mingle with the steam and become dissipated in the upper air.

From the summit of the pass an extensive view of the Mývatns Öraefa, Desolate Lava of Mývatn, is obtained towards the northeast. It is a trackless ruin wrought by the combined labors of several volcanoes and contains no vegetation save patches of lichens that nourish a small herd of reindeer. At the foot of the slope upon which we halted a vast plain spreads out into the Öraefa. This plain is covered with a thin crust of chemical earths which rest upon a substratum of viscid, hot and sulfur-permeated clay. At the margin we left the ponies and ventured cautiously upon the crust, recalling the experience of Dr. Hooker in a similar situation at Krisuvik, where he nearly lost his life by sinking into the hot mass. The crust will support the curious traveller if he is sufficiently cautious in choosing his route by sounding the shell in front of him with a staff. It reminded me of an experience I had when a boy in watching my father cross a river upon thin ice, where he sounded the ice step by step in advance with the pole of his axe while I followed with great temerity over the cracking ice. As I expressed my fear of breaking through, he replied, “it will hold as long as it cracks.” And so with the sulfur crust above the seething furies, “it will hold as long as it cracks.” Woe to him who fails to sound this undulating crust before his advancing steps! All of this crust is composed of sublimated chemicals brought to the surface by the superheated gases. The crystals are various in form according to their chemical constituents and together they present a discordant color scheme, much like a painter’s palette where the various color daubs have run together. As one crunches the crystals beneath his feet he has the sensation of walking with hob-nails through a jeweller’s showcase.

This Arctic Phlegethon is mottled with pits of boiling bolus. There are four principal groups of these mud cauldrons, each in a basin of baked mud, elevated a few feet above the level of the plain. In 1910 one of these groups contained seven cauldrons, the largest being thirty feet in diameter. The cauldrons are not permanent but crust over from time to time and new ones form in the adjacent areas. The mud rises slowly in a gigantic bubble, like the sticky bubbles on the surface of hot molasses candy, until the gas pressure is sufficient to burst the film, when a cloud of gases suddenly shoots upward, a hot shower of mud is ejected and then the entire mass slides back into the bowels of the earth with a horrid, sickening gasp. It is now safe to mount the rim and watch the mass as it slowly wells upwards for another display. Standing in a bath of vapors one looks backward over the track whence he came and notes tiny columns of steam marking the trail along which he so recently advanced. Every place in the crust that was punctured with the staff is slowly changing into a cauldron like the one at his feet and the traveller experiences a sensation of uneasiness, knowing, as he does, that in a brief time a new line of cauldrons will be in operation and for the first time he fully realizes the insecurity of his position and he longs for the solidity of the lava ridge where he left the hobbled ponies.

Because it suggests the food that may be provided for the guests of the Inferno, the Icelander has named the material within the smoking cauldrons “hell-broth” and the name can not be improved. They boil and splutter, spatter and emit abundant volumes of steam and make a great fuss over the little matter of a solid nature that is ejected. These spiteful explosions are worthy of greater results.

For two hours we wandered among the fumaroles and fountains of seething mud. Oftentimes the crust cracked viciously beneath our feet and we retreated precipitously to a thicker portion of the shell which covers this vast subterranean fire. It gave us much amusement to plug up the orifices of the small fumaroles with plastic clay and sulfur and to wait for them to burst forth spitefully and hurl out a shower of scorching mud.

Following a narrow sheep trail between the edge of the lava and the high ridge that connects Námarskartð with Leirnúkr and Krafla, we arrived at a lonely spot, a deserted Icelandic farm with tumbled down buildings, which gave evidence of having been a prosperous stead before the lava flood spread its fiery wings over the valley. Here we paused for lunch. Among our steamer gifts was a package which was marked for us to open some day when we desired a change from our regular fare. We put it into our hamper that morning and rejoiced to find a bottle of delicious olives. We washed down this lunch with acid water from the brook, which we later found to have its origin in one of the craters of Krafla. On our return from the summit, the ponies, who had had no water for several hours, went eagerly to this brook but after one taste they trotted along. Curious to know why they would not drink since they had freely done so in the morning, I dismounted and tasted the water. It had become much more acid and I could account for it only by supposing that a larger volume than usual had issued from the crater and that there had been less snow water for its dilution than when we had lunched.

The climb soon began in earnest. In a long series of zigzag curves we crossed ridge after ridge of sticky clay interspersed with volcanic ash and pumice. Having gained the summit of the ash ridges we photographed the distant peak of Krafla, traversed a bit of high moorland containing a small crater lake of blue water, entered a sheltered valley between the upper peak of Krafla and Hrafntinnuhryggr, Raven-Peaks-Back, a ridge of obsidian or Icelandic agate. Enormous masses of jet black obsidian of the purest form rise from this ridge and millions of these glass boulders are piled in a talus at the base of the cliffs. I secured an excellent specimen seven inches in diameter, pointed at one side and with a beautiful and double conchoidal fracture for the science museum at Springfield, Mass.

We left the tired ponies to graze in the bit of grass while we made the final ascent of the mountain, which is far above the craters. The slope is steep and is clothed with a thick mat of birches to the very edge of the snow in the ravine. These birches are so small that an entire tree, roots, stem, leaves and catkin may be placed upon a five cent piece without projecting. We saw many tracks of reindeer and picked up a fine set of antlers of the last casting. The herd of these animals in the vicinity of Krafla is thriving as they are undisturbed by the natives.

On the very tip-top of the mountain we erected a cairn and deposited a record of our ascent in a metal cylinder. We then photographed the official flag of the Arctic Club of America and examined the broad and horrent country surrounding the base of this volcano. Before I went to Iceland my mountain climbing had been confined to the mountains of New Hampshire, where a magnificent, virgin forest clothes the middle and lower slopes. To stand upon any mountain in Iceland, with White Mountain impressions in the mind, and gaze at the barrenness of the surrounding country affords the greatest possible contrast.

The view from the summit of Krafla is imposing but not so extensive as from Hekla. Unlike Hekla the craters are on the slope and far below the summit. The top of Krafla is a jumbled mass of disintegrating granophyre. The view down the eastern slope and across the intervening space to Leirnúkr is plutonic and exceedingly wild. In the distance a mass of lava hangs upon the side of Leirnúkr like a petrified waterfall, nearer and on the middle slopes of Krafla are several old craters filled with water from which columns of steam continually ascend. One of them is a double crater with confluent edges. It is filled with water which boils violently along the side next to the summit of the mountain. The craters are at an elevation of 1700 feet above sea level and in the days when Henderson visited them they were in a violent state of action. On July 15, 1910, we found them provokingly quiet. At some distance down the mountain below the crater lakes there is a great rift cutting deeply into the side of the mountain. Here we found considerable activity. The cleft was so filled with clouds of steam that my photograph of it reveals little except the belching vapors. If I had had a phonograph I could have brought home a record of growling, roaring, impatient muttering that burst into explosive thunders that would have been of scientific interest at least if not to the popular ear. The odors of sulfur gases were sufficiently strong to stifle any one except a chemist accustomed to the fragrance of the laboratory. If I had had an instrument to record odors I could have brought away a collection of these simple and multiple combinations of smells that would have startled the dullest of olefactory nerves. The name of this rift in Icelandic is Víti, signifying Hell, well named.

Krafla is not dead, merely sleeping. In the past centuries it has wrought great havoc. The eruption of May 17, 1724, was so violent that the ashes and pumice on the eastern shore of Mývatn were deposited to a depth of over three feet. The connection between Krafla and Leirnúkr is close, in reality they are one volcano with different craters. Leirnúkr had a violent eruption in 1725, to which reference was made in the preceding chapter, and during the following four years there were three more eruptions that did great damage.

The extended view from Krafla is desolate and dreary in the extreme. When the eye ranges beyond the smoking slopes of mighty Krafla it meets the greatest lava desolation in the north of Iceland. In the distance flashes of the Jökulsá, Ice-Mountain-River, are seen as it labors through the twisted lava to plunge into the abyss of the Dettifoss. The southern view commands the low volcanoes surrounding Mývatn. To the left rises the obsidian mountain and at our very feet ascend the roaring columns out of Víti to their dissipation in the upper air.

Descending to our ponies we decided to traverse the unexplored portion of the mountain by a spiral route. We soon became entangled in an intricate mesh of deep, soft gullies. The great depth of these gullies, the ridges of dry ashes that surmounted them, the steep, viscid slopes and the beds filled with running water hot and odorous, wherein a peculiar alga thrives, and the intervening reaches of slumpy snow afforded us two hours of very laborious work. Cautiously we proceeded, leading the ponies, searching for places to descend the slopes and then working much harder to get out of the ravine, only to find it necessary to repeat the performance many times. The trusting beasts followed our ignominious slides into the gulches and after much coaxing managed to scramble up after us into the dry ashes at the top. We photographed these gullies, descended to the sheep trail and after three and one half hours of hard riding returned to our comfortable quarters at Reykjalíð farm, where we did ample justice to the supper which the farmer’s daughter had prepared for us. On the menu was an excellent item that was new to us, a sweet purple soup.

The minerals and lava specimens that I had collected up to this time were packed and left with the farmer who engaged for a kroner to transport them to Húsavik when he went to this trading station in the autumn. In due course of time the box, which I had left to his care, arrived safely in Springfield,—another instance of the faithfulness of the Icelander in keeping his word. The reader will note the difference in the cost of packing a box of seventy-five pounds on the back of a pony for two days and the tariff of the Express Companies of America.

On the morrow we rode through the lava beds that fringe the eastern shore of Mývatn just after a clearing shower and the sunlight upon the crater islands, the lichen-encrusted lava ridges and the play of light upon the water of the land-locked pools was of surprising beauty. As we neared Kálfstrond, Calf-Strand, an Icelandic shepherd dog ran out to meet us and gave a noisy welcome. For the size of the dog the Iceland variety has the strongest lungs of any member of the canine family. They will run for half a mile to meet the traveller yelping and crying and will often follow him for miles after leaving the farm. One of these fluffy balls of animation stayed with us for several days and resisted all our efforts to leave him behind. We left him in a stable with instructions to keep him till some one returned to the farm from whence he had run away but at noon as we were fording a river he joyously arrived. The cold stream was no obstacle, he was the first on the opposite shore and stayed with us until we arrived at Reykjavik. He lost no opportunity to get into our room at the hotel, invariably found us if we went for a walk and when we pushed from the landing in a small boat to go out into the stream to board our steamer for home, he jumped from the wharf into the boat and stuck to us till we ascended the gang plank and as the boat pulled ashore he gave one long and mournful cry. My heart has often turned towards the faithfulness and the attachment of this little fellow and often do I wonder if he is following the sheep over his native hills forgetful of the summer’s escapade when he ran away to associate with strangers.

Beneath the lava ridges great streams of water from the neighboring mountains pour into the lake and around these inlets there is always excellent trout fishing. The trout are large and abundant. Between the lake and Hverfjall the lava is rifted into deep ravines and mighty cliffs which, in their castellated and architectural forms, coated with lichens, present more the appearance of being the handiwork of man than that of subterranean powers assisted by the frosts of time. Little imagination is necessary to view in this mass of plutonic rock the Gothic arches of a long deserted cloister, and in that pile of ragged crust, the ramparts and bastions of a mediaeval fortress. Lofty piles stand side by side upon the plain suggestive of triumphal arches whose capstone has fallen to the ground.

On arriving at Skútustaðir we found that Baron Klinckowström, his son Harald and Walter Friedeberg, whom we had met on the Botnia, had arrived and established themselves in the Thinghús. Here they were busy in preparing bird skins for museums in Stockholm, Berlin, and the private collection of Harald. It was a pleasure to see a youth like Harald cling for hours to the trying labor of preparing bird skins. Later I examined his large and excellent collection of mounted birds at his father’s castle at Stafsund near Stockholm and I could not help admiring the energy and perseverance of the youth as well as the skill manifest in mounting this collection, all of which was the work of his unaided hands. The boy with a purpose, who lives largely in the open, even though he may be deprived of the university, is sure to obtain a most liberal education, an education that comes through the eye and is augmented by thought. Later, when I had had a chance to study the daily life of a boy in the public schools of Sweden and draw a comparison with that of an American youth, I understood how that little country of mountains and lakes had produced so many remarkable men, such as Berzelius, Linnaeus, Bergman, Scheele and Arrhenius. It is the spirit that dominates the boy in successful education, not the special advantages of his equipment.