118 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
we could lay hands on, were set quietly down to chess, 
and coffee brewed in Geysir water; when suddenly 
it seemed as if beneath our very feet a quantity of 
subterraneous cannon were going off; the whole earth 
shook, and Sigurdr, starting to his feet, upset the chess¬ 
board (I was just beginning to get the best of the 
game), and flung off full speed toward the great basin. 
B y the time we reached its brim, however, the noise 
had ceased, and all we could see was a slight movement 
in the centre, as if an angel had passed by and troubled 
the water. Irritated at this false alarm, we determined 
to revenge ourselves by going and tormenting the 
Strokr. Strokr—or the churn —you must know, is an 
unfortunate Geysir, with so little command over his 
temper and his stomach, that you can get a rise out of 
him whenever you like. All that is necessary is to 
collect a quantity of sods, and throw them down his 
funnel. As he has no basin to protect him from these 
liberties, you can approach to the very edge of the pipe, 
about five feet in diameter, and look down at the boiling 
water which is perpetually seething at the bottom. In 
a few minutes the dose of turf you have just adminis¬ 
tered begins to disagree with him; he works himself up 
