At _Skipholt_ there is an excellent set of buildings mostly made of wood, the turf walls are in prime repair, the fields free from stones and smooth, smoothness being a rare condition of Icelandic mowing fields, the flocks are large and the cattle numerous. It is the only farm in the country where I have seen running water supplied to the stables. I must add that there are other farms in the north which the King did not visit that are as prosperous as _Skipholt_. This was the best one that he visited. If he had gone to _Skútustaðir_, _Kalmungstúnga_ or _Miklibaer_ he would also have found praiseworthy conditions and no doubt would have rewarded, at least with a word of praise, the industrious farmers at these steads. Bidding the _bondé_ and the good-wife at _Skipholt_ good bye and receiving in return their hearty _góðr á daginn_ we turned towards _Hruni_. Our German companion continued southward to _Skálholt_ and we left the road to climb the series of ridges between the valleys of the _Hvitá_ and the _Laxá_, Salmon-River. The ponies picked their way over ridge after ridge of lava crags with alternate ascent and descent. In some places the declivities were so steep that it was difficult to retain our seat in the pommelless saddles. The surcingles were old and cracked and we put little trust in them. However, they held, else we would have experienced a very undignified descent. I have seen hundreds of saddles and bridles in Iceland and never have I seen a new one. I often wondered if they were ever new. It is remarkable that they seldom break. As we climbed the last ridge we met a barebacked rider, a tall, sun-browned shepherd carrying a lost lamb in his bosom with its head protruding above the rider’s arm and the well known words of Elizabeth Clephane’s hymn came to our lips,— “But all thro’ the mountains thunder riven And up from the rocky steep, There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, ‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep.’” It was five in the evening when we mounted the last ridge and looked down upon _Hruni_. It was one of the fairest sights I have ever witnessed,—the basin-shaped valley of verdure surrounded by lofty ridges, the thousand sheep scattered upon the hillsides and through the meadow, the group of houses which constitute the farm buildings, and the little church across the yard, the steam rising from some hot springs near the dwellings, the hundreds of haycocks waiting for the morrow to be taken to the stacks, the songs of the maidens driving the cows home from the pasture,—a picture of prosperity and of peace. Surely this is not Iceland or else the name is a misnomer.