We stopped to rest the ponies. This is frequently necessary, especially when first starting on a long trip and always in the morning. Better accustomed to the saddle we rode on with much enjoyment of the novelty and with exhilaration, little thinking what those saddles had in store for us before that day’s ride came to a close. Somewhere along this portion of the route I lost my riding belt. Deciding to do without it I refrained from returning in search. Three weeks later this belt was handed to us one evening, it having been sent on from farm to farm. Twelve miles out from _Reykjavik_ we came to the last inhabited dwelling we were to see before night. It is at the branching of the post road from the _Thingvellir_ road. It is a place for light refreshments, much resorted to on Sundays and holidays by the young people out riding. The ponies were turned into the little compound provided for that purpose and we entered and partook of milk, excellent coffee and cakes. Over a year later, on our way down from the north coast, we called at this same place and this time we rode into the yard in true Icelandic style. No matter how careful the Icelander is of his pony, and he favors him all he can, it is a matter of pride to enter a village or ride up to a lonely farm at a keen gallop. As my last guide, Ólafur said,—“With reins tight and head up.” To tighten the reins on an Icelandic pony is to put him into a gallop. We were now ascending the divide. Every kilometer, (the frequently travelled routes have a stone marker placed every five kilometers), brought us to higher ground, with an ever increasing view. Looking backward, as the ponies climbed the steep gradient, we caught many glimpses of the smiling _Faxafjörðr_. The ice crown of _Snaefells Jökull_ loomed larger though we were going from it. Several small lakes, of glacier origin, nestle in the vales to the north marked with a ring of verdant grass about them. The country through which we are passing is mostly devoid of grass and it is difficult to find sufficient feed for the ponies and we regulate our stops accordingly. This is a desolate, dreary country, piled with blocks of frost-riven lava which time has graciously covered with a mantle of lichens. The whimbrels made their appearance and stayed with us throughout the summer whenever we rode the heather. They are noisy birds, swooping overhead uttering their prolonged calls, or running along the trail ahead of the ponies and then perching upon a lichen-encrusted rock to be lost to view except to the close observer. Their colors blend perfectly with their surroundings. Of all the curios which we brought back from Iceland nothing reminds us more of our journeys than the long-billed whimbrel which is perched above our bookcases.