Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 December 1875 — An Icelandic Home. [ARTICLE]

An Icelandic Home.

The boys of Iceland must be content with very few acquaintances or playmates. The valleys which produce grass enough for the farmer’s ponies, cattle and sheep are generally scattered widely apart, divided by ridges of lava so hard and cold that only a few wild-flowers succeed in growing in their cracks and hollows. Then, since the farms must be all the larger, because the grass is short and grows slowly in such a severe northern climate, the dwellings are rarely nearer than four or five miles apart; and were it not for their swift and nimble ponies the people would see very little of each other except on Sundays, when they nde long distances to attend worship in their little wooden churches. But of all boys in the island, not one was so lonely in his situation as Jon bigurdson. His father lived many miles beyond that broad, grassy plain which sti etches from the Geysers to the sea, on the banks of the swift rivep Thiorva. On each side there were mountains sb black and bare that they looked like gigantic piles of coal; but the valley opened to the southward as if to let the sun in, and far away, when the weather was clear, the snowy top of Mount Hecla shone against the sky. The farmer Sigurd, Jon’s father, was a poor man, or he would not have settled so far away from any neighbors; for he was of a cheerful and social nature, and there were few atKyrkedal who could vie with him in knowledge of the ancient history and literature of Iceland. The house was built on a knoll, under a cliff which sheltered it from the violent west and northwest winds. The walls, of lava stones and surf, were low and broad; and the roofs over dwelling, storehouses and stables were covered deep with earth, upon which grew such excellent grass that the ponies were fond of climbing up the sloping corners of the wall in order to get at it. Sometimes they might be seen cunningly balanced on the steep sides of the roof, grazing along the very ridge-poles, or looking over the end of the gable when some member of the family came out of the door, as much as to say: “Get me down if you can!” Around the buildings there was a square wall of inclosure, giv ing the place the appearance of a little fortress. ,

On one side of the knoll a hot spring bubbled up. In the morning or evening, when the air was cool, quite a little column of steam arose from it, whirling and broadening as it melted away; but the water was pure and wholesome as soon as it became cold enough for use. In front of the house, where the sun shone warmest, Sigurd had laid out a small garden. It was a great labor for him to remove the huge stones and roll them into a protecting wall, to carry good soil from the places where the mountain rills had gradually washed it down from above, and to arrange it so that frosts and cold rains should do the least harmi; and the whole family thought themselves suddenly rich one summer when they pulled their first radishes, saw the little bed of potatoes coming into blossom, and the cabbages rolling up their leaves, in order to make, at least, baby-heads before the winter came. Within the house all was low, and dark and dismal. The air was very close and bad, for the stables were only separated from the dwelling-room by a narrow passage, and bunches of dry salt fish hung on the walls. Besides, it was usually full of smoke from the fire of peat, and, after a rain, of steam from Sigurd’s and Jon’s heavy woolen coats. But to the boy it was a delightful, a comfortable home, for within it he found shelter, warmth, food and! instruction. The room for visitors seemed to him the most splendid place in the world, because it had a wooden floor, a window with six panes of glass, a colored print of the King of Denmark and a geranium in a pot. This was so precious a plant that Jon and his sister Gurid hardly dared to touch & leaves. They were almost afraid to smell it for fear of sniffing away some of its life; and Gurid, after seeing a leaf of it laid on her dead sister’s bosom, insisted that some angel, many hundred years ago, had brought the seed straight down from heaven.— Rayard Taylor, in St. Nicholas for January.

The Boston Traveller tells this pathetic story: “Last Wednesday Eddie House, George Mayberry and Frederick Pray, each about eight years of age, living at Quincy Point, went out on Town River on the ice to slide. Eddie, in sliding too near the channel, fell through an ice-hole, and the other two, after fruitless efforts to rescue him, called out for help. Herbert Nott, aged about twelve years, who had just arrived home frbm school, hearing the cries, dashed oft' at full speed, to the great chagrin of his mother, w T ho had charged him to return home immediately at the close of school to go on an errand. She saw him run toward the river, and was planning a punishment for the disobedient but hitherto very obedient Herbert, who, however, had satisfied himself that he was needed mote on the nver. When little Eddie saw him coming, he cried out: ‘ Oh, savh me, Herbert! I shall drown.’ Herbert replied:? No. you won't unless I drown with you? TLen taking George’s sled and pushing) it into the water, tellingjEddie to lay hold of it, he drew him safely out and'took him to his fond mother. Probably Eddie will ba more careful in future.”