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.”