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,— “A thousand rills Come leaping from the mountain, each a fay, Sweet singing then; ‘O come with us out seaward, come away!’”