TRAVELING IN ICELAND

It ought, one would have thought, to have been night, even in the
sixty-fifth parallel of latitude; but still the nocturnal illumination
did not surprise me. For in Iceland, during the months of June and July,
the sun never sets.

The temperature, however, was very much lower than I expected. I was
cold, but even that did not affect me so much as ravenous hunger.
Welcome indeed, therefore, was the hut which hospitably opened its doors
to us.

It was merely the house of a peasant, but in the matter of hospitality,
it was worthy of being the palace of a king. As we alighted at the door
the master of the house came forward, held out his hand, and without any
further ceremony, signaled to us to follow him.

We followed him, for to accompany him was impossible. A long, narrow,
gloomy passage led into the interior of this habitation, made from beams
roughly squared by the ax. This passage gave ingress to every room. The
chambers were four in number--the kitchen, the workshop, where the
weaving was carried on, the general sleeping chamber of the family, and
the best room, to which strangers were especially invited. My uncle,
whose lofty stature had not been taken into consideration when the house
was built, contrived to knock his head against the beams of the roof.

We were introduced into our chamber, a kind of large room with a hard
earthen floor, and lighted by a window, the panes of which were made of
a sort of parchment from the intestines of sheep--very far from
transparent.

The bedding was composed of dry hay thrown into two long red wooden
boxes, ornamented with sentences painted in Icelandic. I really had no
idea that we should be made so comfortable. There was one objection to
the house, and that was, the very powerful odor of dried fish, of
macerated meat, and of sour milk, which three fragrances combined did
not at all suit my olfactory nerves.

As soon as we had freed ourselves from our heavy traveling costume, the
voice of our host was heard calling to us to come into the kitchen, the
only room in which the Icelanders ever make any fire, no matter how cold
it may be.

My uncle, nothing loath, hastened to obey this hospitable and friendly
invitation. I followed.

The kitchen chimney was made on an antique model. A large stone standing
in the middle of the room was the fireplace; above, in the roof, was a
hole for the smoke to pass through. This apartment was kitchen, parlor