Paradise Reclaimed by Halldor Laxness

Steinar of Hlíðar hoisted his saddle on his back and set off for home. He took the track along the south side of the lake through the wood which has stood there for thousands of years and is unique because it never grows taller than the height of a man, or higher than a man can reach; everything above that is sheared off by the cold. All these stunted trees bent to the will of the wind. Then he followed the paths along the stream that flow out of Þingvallavatn (Lake Þingvellir) towards the lowlands and the main track to his home district. He walked all day and far into the night; it had begun to rain and the ground was wet, giving off a wonderful aroma. Midsummer was past, the two months when night did not exist; but one could scarcely call the nights dark yet. An occasional farm-dog gave tongue as he passed. He came to a meadow full of haycocks, where he put the saddle down for a pillow, spread hay over himself, and munched half a rye-scone that tasted utterly delicious, even though it was as tough as a saddle-flap. It was the last of his provisions. Before he fell asleep he recited to himself: Wet and weary down I lay,Far too tired to wander; Saddle down among the hayIn the meadow yonder. Next morning he called at a farm. The farmer was already up, and he asked the visitor if he were a Mormon. Steinar of Hlíðar said he was not-"unfortunately not, I almost said," he added. "I come from Steinahlíðar, farther east."

"Well, if you say you're not a Mormon, you aren't one," said the farmer. "I've never heard of a Mormon who didn't acknowledge he was one before being asked, even though he knew it would cost him a beating."