A troup of ponies on a journey will usually stay together. Although we frequently passed through mountain pastures where scores of horses were grazing, we never knew one of our ponies to leave the company of his own companions. On arrival at a farm the ponies are led with a string, for the Icelander is jealous of every blade of grass within his enclosure and it is a mark of discourtesy to permit the ponies to graze about the buildings. The best ponies are raised in the rich valleys of the north rivers and it is there that the Icelandic gentleman goes for his fancy saddle horse, as the Yankee formerly went to Kentucky. The straying of the ponies is not the only cause of a late departure in the morning. The Icelander is never in a hurry. Every night we held a solemn council with the guide and it was usually agreed that we would leave at nine in the morning, sometimes the time set was eight. But, if the ponies had not strayed then it was found that several of them must be shod; if they did not need shoeing the saddles needed attention; if the saddles were in good condition then the morning coffee was late, so that we usually started two hours after the appointed time. The best advice to a prospective Yankee in Iceland is,—Do not fret. Go and take photographs while the ponies are being saddled. When they are saddled go and take some more. When everything is ready, start. To the nervous and rushing American this is an unusual procedure. But, the charm of Icelandic travel is the abundance of time, freedom from any real cause for worry and the knowledge that darkness can not overtake the summer traveller, no matter where or when he travels. There is also the certainty that he will receive a cordial reception, no matter when he arrives. Impatient Americans need a summer on horseback in Iceland to curb their impetuosity. One day we had a pleasant experience in calling at a farm house where lived friends of our guide. We were invited into the guest room which contained a narrow bed, a big round table and an organ made in Brattleboro, Vt. Our host produced the usual horn of snuff and with it some excellent cigars. He then played and sang to us in Icelandic,—“There’s a Land that is Fairer than Day.” He wished us to photograph his children but their mother first insisted in putting them through the hair-combing process. After this they were lined up in front of the house, seven in a row. After repeated efforts on the part of the older ones to keep the hands of their baby brother out of his mouth the picture was taken with success. The mother disappeared for half an hour and then returned with coffee and freshly made pancakes rolled in sugar.