Plutarch · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Why does seawater not nourish trees? Is it for the same reason that it does not nourish land animals either? For the followers of Plato, Anaxagoras, and Democritus think that a plant is a creature rooted in earth. It is not the case that, because the sea's water is nourishing and drinkable for marine plants just as it is for fish, it therefore also nourishes plants and trees growing on land: seawater does not soak into their roots because of its density, nor is it drawn up because of its weight. That it is heavy and earthy is shown by many things, including its greater buoyancy in holding up ships and swimmers. Or is it rather that trees are harmed above all by dryness, and seawater is drying? Hence salt helps against putrefaction, and the bodies of those who have bathed in the sea at once have a dry and rough surface. Or is it that oil is hostile to plants and destroys whatever it is smeared on, while the sea partakes of much oiliness—which is why it helps kindle fire, and we advise people not to throw seawater onto flames? Or has the water become undrinkable and bitter, as Aristotle says, through a mixture of burnt earth? For indeed lye
is produced when fresh water falls upon ash, and this dissolution changes and spoils what is wholesome and drinkable, just as within us fevers turn moisture into bile. As for the woody growths and plants that they report sprout in the Red Sea, these bear no fruit but are nourished by the rivers that pour much silt into it; hence their origin is not far from land but close to it. Why do trees and seeds grow better nourished by rainwater than by water brought in channels? Is it, as Laetus used to say, that rain, by its striking force, opens up passages in the earth by dividing it, and so seeps down more readily to the root? But this is not true, and Laetus failed to notice that marsh plants too—the bulrush,
the sedge, and the rush—remain unenlarged and fail to sprout when rains do not fall in their season. What Aristotle says is true, however: that rainwater is fresh and new, while marsh water is stale and old. Or is even this more plausible than true? For spring water and river water too are fresh and newly generated: "you could not step twice into the same rivers," as Heraclitus says—other waters flow in and nourish, and these are no worse. Is rainwater, then, light and airy, mixed with wind, and so guided and sent up quickly into the plant because of its fineness—which is also why it makes bubbles when mixed with air? Or does it nourish chiefly by being mastered by what it nourishes?
for this is what digestion is; indecoction, its opposite, occurs when what is fine, simple, and without inherent flavor—such as rainwater—proves too strong to be acted upon and changed. For being generated in air and wind, it comes down pure and unmixed, whereas spring waters, being made like the earth and the places through which they pass, are filled with many qualities, on account of which they are less
easily transformed and more slowly yield themselves to digestion for change into what is nourished; whereas the ready transformability of rainwater is proven by its tendency to putrefy, for it is more prone to putrefaction than river water or well water, and digestion seems to be a kind of putrefaction, as Empedocles testifies when he says, "wine within the wood becomes water, having putrefied beneath the bark." Or is it easiest and most ready of all to attribute the sweetness and goodness of rainwater to the fact that it is sent forth at once by the wind?
That is why young animals enjoy it more eagerly, and frogs, expecting rain, brighten their voices for joy, welcoming the rain as a relish to the marsh water and as the seed of its own sweetness—Aratus too made this a sign of coming rain when he said: "Ah, wretched generations, food for the water-snakes, the tadpoles' fathers croak straightway from the marsh." Why do herdsmen give their flocks salt to lick? Is it, as most people suppose, for the sake of increasing their food intake and fattening them? For its sharpness stimulates appetite, and by opening up the passages it makes a way more readily for food to be distributed through the body—which is why Apollonius the Herophilean used to order the lean and poorly nourished not to be fed with sweet or coarse food
but with salted and brined foods, whose fineness, acting like a kind of ingrained roughening, delivers nourishment to the body through its passages. Or do they rather accustom their livestock to lick salt for the sake of health, to check excess fat? For animals that grow too fat fall sick, and salt melts and dissolves their fat, whereby they are more easily and readily skinned once slaughtered; for the fat that glues and binds the hide together becomes thin and weak under the sharpness of the salt.
The blood, too, of those that lick salt is thinned, and their insides do not congeal once salt is mixed in. Consider also whether they are not more fertile and more eager for mating: dogs, at any rate, conceive quickly after eating salted meat, and salted ships' timbers nourish more mice because of
their frequent coupling there. Why are seeds better nourished by rains accompanied by thunder and lightning—the ones people actually call "lightning-rains"? Is it because such rains are windy on account of the disturbance and mixing of the air, and wind, by stirring the moisture, sends it up and delivers it more? Or is it that thunder and lightning are produced by heat in the air struggling against cold,
and that is why it thunders least in winter and most in spring and autumn, because of the unevenness of the blending of the seasons—and this heat, by cooking the moisture, makes it agreeable and beneficial to growing things? Or is it chiefly in spring that it thunders and lightens for the reason stated, and spring rains are more necessary for seeds before summer comes, which is why the region that receives the most rain in spring,
such as the region of Sicily, yields many good crops? Why is it that of the flavors, eight in kind, we observe only one, the salty, that is not produced from any fruit? And yet the olive first bears the bitter flavor, and the grape the sour, and then, changing, the one becomes oily and the other winelike; and the astringent likewise changes in
date-palm fruits, and the tart in pomegranates changes into the sweet; some pomegranates and apples, however, simply bear the sour throughout, while the pungent is abundant in roots and seeds. Is it, then, that there is no generation of the salty at all, but rather that the salty is a corruption of the other flavors—which is why it is unnourishing for all things that are nourished from plants and seeds, though it becomes a relish for some
by removing the cloying excess of what nourishes? Or is it that, just as people boiling seawater remove its salty, biting quality, so too in hot things the salty quality is dimmed by the heat? Or is flavor, as Plato said, water filtered through a plant, and seawater too, when filtered, casts off its salty quality, since that quality is earthy and made of coarse particles—which is why people digging near the shore come upon sweet
springs, and many draw sweet water, filtered, out of the sea using vessels of wax, the salty and earthy part being separated off; and passage through clay entirely renders seawater, once filtered through it, drinkable, because the clay retains the earthy part within itself and does not let it pass through. Since this is so, it stands to reason that plants neither take up salinity from outside nor, if it arises
within them, secrete it into their fruit; for their passages, being fine, do not let through what is earthy and coarse-grained. Or should saltiness be classed as a kind of bitterness, as Homer says: "and from his mouth he spat out the bitter brine, which streamed in quantity down from his head"? And Plato says that both flavors cleanse and dissolve, but the salty does this less and is not
harsh. It will seem that the bitter differs from the salty by an excess of dryness, since the salty too is drying. Why do those who habitually walk among dew-laden trees develop a scurf on the parts of their body that touch the foliage? Is it, as Laetus used to say, that the dewy moisture, by its fineness, scrapes the skin off the flesh? Or, just as blight arises in seeds that are kept moist, so too
does some efflorescence, given off by the dew as it scratches and dissolves the tender green surfaces, spread and settle on the least fleshy parts of the body, such as the shins and feet, and there scratch and bite the surface? That there is indeed something naturally biting in dew is shown by the fact that it makes fat people leaner: at any rate, plump women, gathering dew
with cloaks or soft wool, seem thereby to melt away their excess flesh. Why do ships sail more slowly on rivers in winter, but not correspondingly slowly on the sea? Is it that river air, being always sluggish and heavy and becoming still thicker in winter through the surrounding cold, impedes those who sail? Or do rivers suffer this more from the water itself than from the air?
for the cold, compressing the water, makes it heavy and dense, as one can learn from water-clocks: they run more slowly in winter than in summer. And Theophrastus records that in Thrace, near Mount Pangaeus, there is a spring from which the same vessel, filled with its water and left standing, draws a weight twice as great in winter as in summer. That the density of the water causes the slowness of sailing is clear
from the fact that river boats carry a greater cargo in winter, for the water, becoming denser and heavier, offers more resistance and support; whereas heat prevents the sea from becoming dense, which is also why it does not freeze, for congealing seems to be a kind of densification. Why is it that, while other liquids grow cold when stirred and churned, we observe the sea growing warmer when it is whipped into waves?
Is it that, in other liquids, motion drives out and disperses the heat as something incidental and foreign to them, whereas the sea's heat, being innate to it, is rather fanned up and fed by the winds? Evidence of this heat is its transparency and the fact that it does not freeze, even though it is earthy and heavy. Why does the sea taste less bitter to the taste in winter? This is what
Dionysius the water-engineer is also said to report. Is it because the sea is never wholly without sweetness nor devoid of bitterness, since it receives so many rivers; and because the sun, by its lightness, draws off and raises to the surface the sweet and drinkable part, doing this more in summer, while in winter it touches the water more gently owing to the weakness of its heat, so that the portion of sweetness that remains behind, being considerable,
tempers and relieves the undiluted bitterness and medicinal harshness? This same thing happens quietly with drinking water too: it grows worse in summer, as the lightest and sweetest part of its heat is dispersed, while in winter fresh new water flows in, and the sea too must share in this, being stirred by it as the rivers also swell. Why do people pour seawater into wine, and fishermen say an oracle was brought
instructing that Dionysus be dipped in the sea, while others, far from the sea, throw in roasted Zacynthian gypsum? Is it that heat helps against excessive chilling, or does heat itself especially unsettle the wine, quenching and destroying its strength? Or is it that the watery and windy element in wine, being most liable to change, is fixed by the earthy substances, which by nature have the power to contract and dry it out, while salt together with
seawater, by thinning and dissolving what is foreign and superfluous, does not allow foul odor or putrefaction to arise; and besides this, whatever is thick and earthy, becoming entangled with the heavier elements and dragged down along with them, forms sediment and dregs, leaving the wine itself pure. Why are people more prone to seasickness sailing on the sea than on rivers, even when they sail on the sea in calm weather? Is it that, of the senses, smell most stirs nausea,
and of the emotions, fear does? For people tremble, shudder, and have their bowels loosened when they conceive an image of danger; and neither of these troubles those who sail on a river, for the smell is one familiar to all drinkable, sweet water, and the voyage is without danger, whereas on the sea people are distressed and afraid at the unfamiliar smell, not trusting the present
about what is to come: so the calm does them no good, but the soul too, being tossed and thrown into confusion, stirs up and fills the body with disturbance. Why is it that when the sea is sprinkled with oil it becomes clear and calm? Is it, as Aristotle says, that the wind, sliding off the smoothness, produces no buffeting or tossing? Or is this account plausible only for what happens on
the surface, since it is also said that divers, when they take oil into their mouths and blow it out, gain brightness and clear sight in the depths—where there can be no sliding of wind to blame? Consider, then, whether the sea, being earthy and uneven, is pushed apart and separated by the density of the oil, and then, as it rushes back together and contracts again, passages are left between, giving the eyes clarity and
transparency. Or is the air mixed into the sea by nature luminous through heat, but becomes uneven and shadowy when disturbed: so that whenever the oil, by its density, smooths away this unevenness, the air recovers its evenness and clarity? Why do fishermen's nets rot more in winter than in summer, although other things generally suffer this more in summer? Is it, as
Theophrastus supposes, that heat, retreating before cold, is displaced inward and makes the depths of the sea warmer, just as happens with the earth—which is also why spring waters are warmer in winter, and lakes and rivers give off more vapor then, since the heat is shut up in the depths by the mastery of the cold? Or is it not putrefaction at all that afflicts the nets,
but rather that, when they stiffen and grow rigid from the cold, drying out and becoming brittle, they suffer, under the battering of the waves, something resembling a kind of rot and decay? For indeed they are strained more in the chill, just as sinews, drawn taut, are torn apart, since the sea is more often churned up on account of the winter storms; which is also why fishermen treat and thicken their nets with dyes, fearing their unraveling, since if they are neither dyed nor treated,
...would more easily escape the notice of fish, since the undyed color of the linen is airy and deceptive in the sea.
Why do the Dorians pray for a bad hay harvest? Is it because hay that gets rained on is gathered badly? For it is cut not dry but green, and so, once soaked through, it quickly rots; whereas grain that is rained on before summer is helped against the hot, southerly winds, since these winds do not allow the grain forming in the ear to become dense, but by their heat they disperse and dissolve its compactness, unless the moisture of the soaked earth remains to cool and moisten the ear.
Why is rich, deep soil good for wheat, while thin soil is better for barley? Is it because strong seeds need more nourishment, while weak seeds need light, sparse nourishment, and barley is weaker and less dense, so it cannot bear abundant, heavy nourishment? This reasoning is confirmed by the fact that three-month wheat grows better in somewhat dry ground, since it is less moisture-dependent and needs less nourishment, and for that reason also ripens faster.
Why is it said, "plant wheat in mud, but barley in dust"? Is it, as we have said, because the one can master more nourishment while the other cannot bear abundance and flooding; or is it that wheat, being dense and woody, grows better when softened and made pulpy in moisture, while for barley, on account of its sparseness, dryness is advantageous at the start, either because of its heat, being well-tempered and harmless — while barley's constitution is colder? Or is it that they fear to grind wheat when it is dry because of the ants, which attack it at once, whereas they are less drawn to barley, since its grains are hard to carry off and hard to transport on account of their size?
Why do they take hairs for fishing-line more from male horses than from females? Is it, as with other parts, that the male is more vigorous than the female also in its hairs; or rather do they think that the hairs of females become worse from being wetted by urine?
Why is the appearance of a squid a sign of a great storm? Is it because all cephalopods are by nature very sensitive to cold, owing to the nakedness and bareness of their flesh, being covered by neither shell nor skin nor scale, but having their hard, bony part within — which is why they are called "soft creatures"? They perceive the approach of a storm quickly because of this sensitivity. Hence the octopus runs up onto land and clings to little rocks as a sign that wind is all but present, while the squid leaps out of the water, fleeing the cold and the disturbance in the depths of the sea; for indeed, of all the cephalopods, it has the most easily crumbled and tender flesh.
Why does the octopus change its color? Is it, as Theophrastus thought, that it is by nature a timid creature, so that when disturbed it turns with its breath and changes color along with it, just as a person does — which is why it has been said, "the color of a coward changes"? Or is this said plausibly with regard to the change itself but not adequately as an explanation of the resemblance it takes on? For it changes in such a way that its color comes to resemble whatever rocks it is near; it was with this in view that Pindar wrote, "bringing to bear most of all the mind of the sea-beast, consort with all the cities," and Theognis, "hold the mind of the many-colored octopus, which appears such as the rock it approaches." This trait, they say, belongs also to those who excel in cunning and cleverness, in that, wishing to escape notice and elude those nearby, they are always likened to the octopus. Or do they suppose that it uses its color as clothing, changing it as easily as one changes garments, at will?
May it be, then, that the octopus itself provides only the beginning of this affection through fear, while the decisive causes lie elsewhere? Consider, then — knowing, as Empedocles held, that there are effluences from all things that have come to be: for not only from living creatures, plants, earth, and sea, but even from stones there continually depart many streams, and from bronze and iron too; indeed all things decay and give off odor because something is always flowing from them and continually being carried off. And indeed they produce either attractions or leapings-upon by means of these effluences, some supposing entwinings of them, others blows, still others certain pushings and circlings. Especially from the rocks along the shore, sprinkled and rubbed away by the sea, it is likely that many small fragments continually depart, which, differing from one another in color, do not attach themselves to other bodies but pass by unnoticed, either slipping around those with denser pores or running through those with looser ones. But the flesh of the octopus, to look at, is from the start honeycomb-like and full of pores, and receptive of effluences; and whenever it is afraid, turning and being turned by its breath, it, as it were, tightens and draws its body together, so that it comes to receive and hold on its surface the effluences of things nearby; for indeed its roughness combined with softness provides coils for the particles that arrive, so that they are not scattered but gathered together and remain, and this makes the surface take on the same color as the things nearest to it. A strong proof of this cause is the fact that the octopus does not become like every neighboring thing, nor does the chameleon take on white colors, but each takes on only those colors whose effluences find pores in it that are commensurate with them.
Why is the tear of a wild boar sweet, but that of a deer briny and unpleasant? The cause is the heat and cold of these animals: the deer is cold, while the boar is very hot and fiery. Hence the one flees while the other defends itself against attackers, and it is especially then, on account of its spirit, that the boar sheds its tear; for as much heat is carried up to the eyes, as has been said, "bristling well its mane, glaring fire from its eyes," what melts away becomes sweet. Some say, however, that as with the whey of milk, when the blood is disturbed the tear is forced out, as Empedocles says. Since, then, the blood of boars is rough and dark on account of heat, but that of deer is thin and watery, it is reasonable that what is secreted in the passions of anger and fear is, in each case, of a corresponding kind.
Why do tame sows give birth more often, and different ones at different times, while wild sows give birth only once, and nearly all around the same days? These days fall at the beginning of summer; hence it has been said, "let it no longer rain by night, on the day the wild sow gives birth." Is it on account of abundance of food — truly "in satiety is Aphrodite"? For abundance of food produces reproductive residue both in plants and in animals. Now the wild sows seek their food by themselves and in fear, while for the tame ones there is always food available, in one case growing naturally, in the other from provision. Or is the cause the leisure and lack of leisure that occur together? For the tame sows are idle, unwilling to wander far from their swineherds, while the wild ones, roaming the mountains and running about, disperse and consume all their food in bodily exertion, so that, because they are always together, either no residue forms, or also because the females are reared and herded together with the males, this produces a recollection of sexual matters and calls forth desire together, as Empedocles said of human beings — "and in him too a longing, mingled somehow through digestion" — whereas among the wild ones, being reared apart from one another, the lack of affection and difficulty of mingling blunts and quenches their impulses.
Or is what Aristotle says also true, that Homer called the boar "chloune" meaning the one-testicled one? For he says that in most of them the testicles are broken off through rubbing against tree-trunks.
Why do they say that the bear's paw has the sweetest flesh and is most pleasant to eat? Is it because the flesh that most concocts the body's nourishment is the most pleasant? And the part that is most ventilated concocts best, being moved most and exercised together with the rest — just as the bear moves this part the most, since it uses it, as it were, as feet for walking and running, and as hands for grasping.
Why is spring a season difficult for tracking? Is it because the dogs, as Empedocles says, searching out with their nostrils the "scattered fragments of the beasts' limbs," which the animals leave behind in the woods, pick these up — but in spring the greatest number of the scents of plants and shrubs obscure and confound these, pouring out and mingling above the blossoming, and they flit about and lead the dogs astray from catching the scent of the beasts? For this reason they say that no one hunts around Etna in Sicily, for a mountain violet grows and flourishes abundantly there throughout the year in the meadows, and the place, always filled with fragrance, seizes away the breath of the animals. And there is a myth told, that it was from there that Pluto snatched away Kore as she was gathering flowers, and that for this reason, honoring and revering the place as inviolable, they do not attack the creatures that graze there.
Why do they least succeed at tracking by footprints around the full moon? For the reason already stated? For the full moons are especially dew-shedding; hence Alcman too called the dew the daughter of Zeus and the Moon, writing, "dew, daughter of Zeus and divine Selene, nourishes." For dew is a weak and feeble kind of rain, and the heat of the moon is likewise weak; hence it draws moisture up from the earth, as the sun does, but being unable to raise it on high or to take hold of it, it lets it fall back down.
Why is ground made dewy by the cold difficult for tracking? Is it because the animals, reluctant to go far from their lairs on account of the cold, make few tracks, and hence they say the animals spare themselves from ranging far, so as not to suffer by wandering far in winter, but always have pasture nearby? Or is it that the tracked ground must not merely retain footprints but must also stir the sense of smell, and it is stirred by scents that are loosened and softly relaxed by warmth, while excessive chilling, freezing the scents, does not allow them to flow or to stir the sense — hence they say that perfumes and wine likewise smell less in cold and winter, since the air, becoming frozen, holds the scents fast within itself and does not allow them to be given off?
Why do animals, when they fall into some affliction, seek out and pursue the remedies that help them, and often benefit from using them — just as dogs eat grass in order to vomit up bile; pigs make for river-crabs, since eating them helps against headache; the tortoise, after eating the flesh of the viper, eats marjoram afterward; and they say that the bear, when nauseated, takes up ants with its tongue and, swallowing them, is relieved — although none of these creatures has had experience or encounter with these remedies beforehand. Is it, then, just as honeycombs stir the bee by their scent, and carrion the vulture, drawing it from afar, that in the same way pigs are drawn by crabs, the tortoise by marjoram, and anthills draw the bear, by scents and emanations that are akin and proper to them, sensation leading them not by any reasoning about what is advantageous? Or is it rather that the bodily constitutions of the animals bring on the appetites, constitutions which their illnesses produce, generating various sharp or sweet qualities, or certain other unaccustomed and strange qualities, as their fluids are altered — as is evident in the case of women, when they are pregnant, and crave to eat even stones and earth? For this reason too, skilled physicians can foretell, from the cravings of the sick, which of them will be saved and which will perish. At any rate, the physician Mnesitheus records that at the onset of pneumonia, the patient who craved onions was saved, while the one who craved figs perished, because appetites follow bodily constitutions, and constitutions follow the state of the disease. It is plausible, then, that animals too, when they fall into illnesses that are not entirely fatal or destructive, acquire this same disposition and constitution, by which each of them is carried and led by its appetites toward the things that will save it.
Why does must, if the vessel is kept surrounded by cold, remain sweet for a long time? Is it because the change of must into wine is a kind of concoction, and cold hinders concoction, since concoction comes about through heat; or is it, on the contrary, that sweetness is the flavor proper to the grape, so that sweetness is even said to "ripen" when it is well blended, while the cold, not allowing it to evaporate but confining the heat, preserves the sweetness of the must? This same cause also explains why must from grapes harvested in rain boils up less: for boiling comes from heat, and cold holds back and constricts the heat.
Why of all animals does the bear least gnaw through nets, although wolves and foxes do gnaw through them? Is it because, having its teeth set deepest within its gaping mouth, it least reaches the cords, since its lips fall forward first on account of their thickness and size; or is it rather that, being strong in its paws, it breaks and tears apart the snare; or does it use both its paws and its mouth together, tearing the cord with the one while defending itself against its pursuers with the other? And nothing helps it so much as its rolling about; hence, rather than busying itself with tearing apart the nets, it often somersaults free and saves itself, whether or not there is need of its teeth as well.
What is the reason that we do not marvel at cold waters but do at hot ones, although it is clear that heat is the cause of the latter just as cold is of the former? For it is not, as some suppose, that heat is a positive power while cold is a privation of heat — since in that case what does not exist would appear to be the cause of more things than what does exist. Rather, it seems that nature apportions the marvelous to the rare — but how? What comes to be seldom comes to be an object of inquiry. "Do you see this boundless bright expanse above, and the earth all round held in its moist embrace" — how many spectacles it brings by night, and how much beauty it displays by day? Yet the many do not marvel at the nature of these, but rainbows and the variegated patterns of clouds by day, and flashing lights that burst like bubbles, are held to be adorned as if by night.
Why do we call the unfruitful vines, though luxuriant in their branches and shoots, "goatish"? Is it because he-goats that are very fat are less fertile and mount the female only with difficulty on account of their fatness? For seed is a residue of the nourishment added to the body; so whenever an animal or a tree is in good condition and grows fat, this is a sign that it consumes the nourishment within itself, producing little or no residue, or only a small and puny one.
Why does a vine wither when sprinkled with wine, especially wine made from itself? Is it, as happens among heavy drinkers...
...baldness occurs, since the heat of the wine evaporates the moisture. Or is it that the character of wine is naturally present in the vine, as Empedocles says: “wine is water that has rotted beneath the bark, within the wood”? So whenever the vine is drenched from outside with wine, it becomes, as it were, fire heaped upon fire for the vine, and the mixture drives out its nourishing power. Or is it that unmixed wine, having an astringent nature, penetrates the roots, and by drawing the pores together and compacting them, stops the water from passing into the plant, by which the plant is naturally able to flourish and put forth shoots? Or is it rather more likely that this is contrary to nature for the vine — to receive back into itself what has gone out from it and now returns again? For the moisture in plants, once it has flowered, normally serves to nourish something, and is not simply added back again, nor does it become once more part of the...
Why alone among all trees does the palm rise up against a weight placed upon it? Is it because the fiery, breath-like force that is especially strong in it, when tested and provoked, exerts itself and rises up more and more? Or is it that the weight, suddenly pressing on the branch, forces all the air within it, once compressed, to retreat backward, and then, its strength gradually recovered, the branch again pushes back against the weight with that airy force? Or is it that the soft, tender shoots simply cannot bear the pressure, and when the weight is removed they gradually straighten themselves up, merely giving the appearance of rising up against it?
Why does water drawn from wells nourish less than water flowing from a spring or falling from the sky? Is it because well water is colder and contains too little air? Or because it has much salt mixed into it from the earth, and salt, more than anything, produces leanness? Or is it that, being sluggish and not exercised by running, it acquires some bad quality hostile to plants and living creatures — the cause being that it is neither well concocted nor able to nourish anything? For this reason stagnant waters, too, are judged less wholesome, since they cannot work off the harm they receive either from the bad quality of the air or from the earth.
Why is the zephyr commonly said to be the swiftest of all winds, as Homer too says, “we also ran along with the blasts of the zephyr”? Is it because it is accustomed to blow when the air is thoroughly purged and least clouded? For density and impurity of the air considerably impede the course of the winds. Or is it that the sun, grazing the cold blast with its rays, causes it to be carried more swiftly? For whatever cold is drawn together by the force of the winds must, once overcome by heat as if by an enemy, be driven farther and faster.
Why can bees not endure smoke? Because the passages of their vital breath are extremely narrow, and this breath, intercepted and shut in by the smoke, chokes them and drives the bees nearly to death. Or is the acridity and bitterness of the smoke the cause: bees delight in sweet things and use no other nourishment, and so, as something contrary and harmful because of its bitterness, they detest smoke. For this reason beekeepers, when they raise smoke to drive bees away, are accustomed to burn bitter herbs, such as hemlock and centaury.
Why do bees sting more quickly those who have recently committed adultery? Is it because their little soul is exceedingly fond of cleanliness and refinement, and besides, their sense of smell is very keen? Since the intercourse of the impure, on account of their shamelessness and unrestrained lust, tends to leave them more unclean, such people are detected more quickly by the bees, who conceive a more violent hatred against them. Hence in Theocritus a shepherd jestingly says that Venus was driven to Anchises so that she might be stung by bees for the adultery she had committed: “Betake yourself to Ida, betake yourself to Anchises, where the oak and the cypress grow, where the bees hum and the honey-flowing house resounds with their buzzing.” And Pindar: “Little craftswoman of the honeycombs, who stung Rhoecus with your sting, taming his treachery.”
Why do she-wolves all give birth at a fixed time of year, within twelve days? Is it because they can neither grasp anything by thought nor recall those virtues by which man alone is able to act? And so, since in their minds they cannot distinguish by whom an injury was inflicted, they judge only whatever presents itself threateningly before their eyes to be an enemy, and prepare to take vengeance on it. Or is it that, when a stone is thrown along the ground, the wolf, supposing it to be some kind of animal, first tries after its own nature to seize it, and then, when it sees itself deceived in that expectation, attacks the man again? Or is it that it hates equally both the man and the thing thrown, and pursues whichever is nearer? This is why dogs, too, leaving the man who threw it, pursue and bite at the stone. Antipater, in his book on animals, says that she-wolves are inclined to bring forth their young when the acorn-bearing trees shed their blossom, which, once tasted, opens their wombs; and when there is no abundance of it, the offspring dies within the body itself and cannot come into the light. Moreover, those regions are not frequented by wolves which do not bear acorns and oaks. Some refer this to the myth of Latona, who, when she was pregnant and could find no safety anywhere because of Juno, obtained from Jove that she be changed into a she-wolf for the twelve days during which she journeyed to Delos, so that ever after all she-wolves might give birth at that very same time.
Why does water appear white at its surface but black at the bottom? Is it because depth is the mother of blackness, dulling and weakening the sun's rays before they descend to it, while the surface, being struck continually by the sun, must necessarily take on the whiteness of light? Empedocles himself confirms this: the black color at the bottom of a river arises from shadow, and the same is seen likewise in hollow caves. Or is it that the bed of rivers and of the sea, generally covered with mud, produces through the reflection of the sun a color corresponding to its own? Or is it more likely that the water there is not at all pure and unmixed, but is tinged with an earthy quality — since, being continually in motion, whether flowing or stirred, it carries something along with it from that mud — so that when it settles to the bottom it renders the water more turbid and less transparent?