With regard to amber, you doubtless share the
general belief in the story that poplars on the banks
of the river Eridanus shed tears of it in grief over ‘
Phaethon ; and that these poplars are the sisters of
Phaethon, who out of sorrow for the boy were
changed into trees and still drip tears—of amber!
Such tales, when I heard them from the lips of the
poets, made me expect that if ever I got to the
Eridanus, by going underneath one of the poplars
and holding out a fold of my cloak I could supply
myself with amber by catching a few of their tears.

 

As a matter of fact, I did visit those parts not long ago
(on another errand, to be sure) ; and as I had to go up
the Eridanus, I kept a sharp lookout, but neither
poplars nor amber were to be seen. Indeed, the very
name of Phaethon was unknown to the natives. At
any rate, when I went into the matter and inquired
when we should reach the poplars—"the amber-poplars,”—the boatmen laughed and asked me to tell
them more plainly what I meant. So I told them
the story: that Phaethon was the child of the Sun,
and that on coming of age he asked his father to
let him drive the car and “do just one day” himself ;
his father consented, and he was thrown from the
car and killed. “And his sisters,” said I, “out of


 

sorrow turned into poplars somewhere in this neighbourhood of yours, on the banks of the Eridanus, at
the spot where he fell, and still weep for him with .
tears of amber.”

 
“Who told you that?” said they.
“The cheat and liar! We never saw any driver
fall from a car,and we haven't the poplars you speak
of. If we had anything of that sort, do you suppose
that for two obols we would row or tow our boats upstream, when we could get rich by picking up the
tears. of the poplars?”’ This remark struck me
uncommonly, and I held my tongue for shame that
I had acted like a child, and no mistake, in believing
the poets, who are such incredible liars that nothing
sensible finds any favour with them.
Well, this was one great expectation that I was
disappointed in; and I was as vexed as if I had let
the amber slip through my fingers, for I was already
imagining all the different uses which I should make
of it.

 

But the other story I thought I should
find completely true there—the one about troops of
swans that sing on the banks of the river. So I put
a second question to the boatmen—for we were still
on our way up. “But, how about your swans?” I
asked. “At what time do they sing so melodiously,
ranged along the river, on this side and on that?
People say, at all events, that they were associates
of Apollo, men with the gift of song, who somewhere
in these parts changed into birds, and for that
reason do not forget their music, but still continue
to sing.”

 
ith a burst of laughter they replied :
"Why, man, aren’t you ever going to stop telling
lies about our country and our river? We are
always on the water, and have worked on the
Eridanus since we were children, almost; now and


 

then we see a few swans in the marshes by the
river, and they have a very unmusical and feeble
croak ; crows or daws are Sirens to them. As for
the sweet song you speak of, we never heard it or
even dreamed of it, so we wonder how these stories
about us got to your people.”