The following notes are meant to be briefly illustrative of a few of the kinds of textual problems that arise when looking at a poem such as the Batrachomyomachia, whose textual tradition is notoriously problematic. Nearly every line raises difficulties and it is unlikely that in many stretches of the text what scholars have pieced together is anything but a blurry representation of some putative original. Those interested in further pursuing these questions and the history of the poem’s textual criticism from the time of Ludwich’s great edition (1896) can best do so now (in English) in Hosty’s detailed commentary (2020), though with the proviso that his choices often reflect a scholarly outlook that assumes the poem’s relentlessly learned intertextuality. Textual questions rarely are taken up in intermediate introductory classes on Homeric epic and, although we have not printed an apparatus criticus, we have tried to give a fair sense of the range of possibilities in each of the cases we have discussed (with reference to the sigla) and have included representative instances of everything from questions of punctuation to textual choices that are at the heart of today’s scholarly disagreements. Obviously, we have barely touched the tip of the iceberg and many might find our choices rather arbitrary. We have, however, tried to illustrate some of the different ways that textual choices and interpretation are deeply intertwined, while giving suggestions for further readings with the hope that students will be able to approach scholarly arguments with a better sense of their textual bases. Because recent scholarship is more readily available on-line, we have emphasized it more than we might have liked in these notes. We have also sometimes gone into the weeds in dealing with scholarship on the poem, not with the idea that students will always immediately appreciate the point, but that if they wish—and they may not—it will be an opportunity for them to start to get a foretaste of philological disputes. At the very least, students should come away with a heightened realization of how fragile our grasp is of many of the ancient texts we confront and hence the precariousness of our interpretations--and this poem, if anything, is exemplary for conveying such lessons. An excellent, if necessarily compressed, discussion of the history of these textual problems in relation to questions of interpretation is Hosty (2021), and for a deep and controversial dive into the status of Homeric texts in Alexandria and the wider contexts for understanding our oldest manuscript (Z) cf. Nagy (2004).

Line 1: πρώτης σελίδος - The so-called lectio difficilior from the oldest manuscript (the tenth century Oxoniensis Baroccianus 50 which is Z in Hosty and O2 in Allen--on which, see Migoubert 2003 for questions about its reliability). When different manuscripts conflict, the more unusual reading (lectio difficilior) is often considered more likely to be the original, since it is thought that scribes would more often replace difficult and rare words with more familiar ones, rather than vice versa. This, of course, is hardly a scientific principle, and one’s choices still depend on a host of other factors and ultimately one’s own critical judgment. In this particular case, the rest of the MSS read πρῶτον Μουσῶν which would make sense of Μουσῶν as a gloss (an added scribal annotation that has been incorporated into the text) on χορὸν, and which may reflect scribal familiarity with the proem of Hesiod’s Theogony, where the poet invokes the Heliconian Muses. The mention of a written σελίδος in an invocation of a traditionally oral chorus of Muses raises a series of complex questions about the proem in general which are taken up individually in the commentary. Generally, though, some have argued that mixing two competing views of poetry is appropriately parodic for an epic about frogs and mice and that the poet is poking fun, perhaps somewhat provocatively, at a traditional invocation. Clearly, the poet is emphasizing, perhaps in an arch way, the writerly nature of both poet and poem, and the independence of its creation from the Muses. For a stimulating discussion of these problems in the parallel context of Latin poetry, cf. Fowler (2002).

Line 6: πῶς μύες ἐν βατράχοισιν ἀριστεύσαντες ἔβησαν - An alternative reading ἀριστεύσοντες (Scorialenis Ω Ι 12—eleventh century) points to a tension in how critics have understood this passage. Some have taken the aorist to suggest that the poet claims that mice triumphed over the frogs, which does not happen in the poem. The future participle helps to solve this worry by indicating only the intent of the mice. Christensen and Robinson, for instance, split the difference and translate as a future participle while printing the aorist. Hosty takes the aorist to be an example of unfulfilled foreshadowing. To take a Homeric example, the proem of the Iliad seems to suggest, depending on how one understands the tenses, that dogs and birds are going to feast on corpses (Iliad 1.4-5), but this never happens, even though it is often threatened. Hosty offers a corresponding narrative justification by suggesting that the “the reader initially assumes that the Mice will emerge victorious,” while the poem conceals a surprise “twist ending.” However, ἀριστεύω here merely points to the mice’s excellence, as we translate, and ἐν βατράχοισιν is governed by ἔβησαν. For mice to be explicitly triumphing (or having triumphed) over frogs, one needs either a genitive, or an accusative with genitive, i.e., winning in x (acc.) for y (genitive).

Line 10: Some editors take πλησίον as an adjective modifying κίνδυνον, translating “near danger,” thereby omitting the comma at the end of line 9 and placing it after πλησίον. By rendering πλησίον as an adverb, however, it makes the temporal sequencing and the locale of the narrative action somewhat more precise. Recent editors prefer λίχνον as the lectio difficilior from Z to the majority reading ἁπαλόν (cf. lines 204, 213 where it is used to describe the soft hair and neck of mice). If the association between λίχνον and λείχω is operative, this reading has a further advantage because of the links between mice with licking, as reflected in many mice names, cf. lines 29, 100, 202, 230.

Line 12: λιμνόχαρις - Most manuscripts have λιμνόχαρις which suggests charm, beauty, and grace of the sort worthy of a king. Hosty prints an alternative reading (JT), λιμνόχαρης (pond-loving), a word so rare that he suggests that it may be the poet’s own coinage on analogy with names like Νικοχάρης (Victory-Loving) and Τιμοχάρης (Honor-Loving). Neither χαρης nor χαρις appear as elements in other names in the poem. One question is whether the narrator would give a more deflationary presentation of the frog king as merely a “pond-lover” from the very outset, especially given Puff- Jaw’s own exalted self-presentation.

Line 12: πολύφημος - Most scholars prefer πολύφημος to πολύφωνος (found in l). Some see as well an intertextual allusion to Odyssey 9.252 ff and Polyphemus and Odysseus. However, apart from the reference to Peleus (line 19) which has a discrete humorous point, the poem does not trade in allusions to Homeric names. If this is an attempt at intertextual parody of the Odyssey, it has the burden of carrying many substantial disanalogies between Puff-Jaw and the Cyclops, Polyphemus, between Crumb-Snatcher and Odysseus, as well as the whole mise-en-scène. While Hosty takes the case for an intertextual allusion to be “certainly correct” (ad loc.), apart from the problems inherent in assessing the scope of allusions, a further question that one might want to ask is what the point of such an allusion would be. Most (1993) tries to establish it as a case of “earnest parody”.

Line 20: ὄχθαις - Many manuscripts have ὄχθας. Παρά in Homer takes the dative and the accusative with both persons and objects. In later Greek, the dative is confined to persons. Given later usage, unless for purposes of archaizing, it is hard to see the dative as a correction of ὄχθας and therefore, it may be preferable. Cf. Hosty, ad loc.

Lines 22-23: These lines have been suspected on the grounds that it is premature for Puff-Jaw to identify the mouse 23. as a “σκηπτοῦχον βασιλῆα,” especially since he may not be. But as a deft bit of characterization, we see Puff-Jaw quickly move from the conditional in (15) to this conclusion after relating his own status. The scope of “καὶ σὲ” (and you too) in line 21 which seemingly equates the mouse’s status with Puff-Jaw’s, raises a question about whether this is limited to Puff-Jaw’s excellence or extends to his status as king as well. Line 23 rhetorically brings the speech full circle to the opening question in line 13 and without it, the transition is rather abrupt. Cf. line 29 for Crumb-Snatcher’s royal pedigree.

Lines 25-64: Sens (2006) finds in this initial dialogue between Puff-Jaw and Crumb-Snatcher an intertext with the 64. battlefield meeting of Glaucus and Diomedes (Il. 6. 145-211) and their exchange of golden armor for bronze. However, even a quick perusal of Beck (2005) shows how complex and unstable intertexts to particular Homeric battlefield meetings must remain, especially if one attributes to the poet a massive self-consciousness about generic conventions in these meetings along the lines of Bauer (2020). Hosty, however, argues that this episode too should be thrown into a slumgullion of intertexts that includes Polyphemus and Odysseus as well as the meeting of Achilles and Asteropaeus at Iliad 21.153. If so, it seems hard to ascribe any coherent intertextual strategy, parodic or otherwise, to all these quaquaversal intertextual soupçons, and they would seem at best to be aimed at eliciting a series of donnish winks from an unbelievably learned reader able to call up in an instant the slightest correspondences from all over the Homeric corpus and beyond—and a beyond that prophetically managed to correspond to the few tiny shreds of the tradition that have come down to us.

Line 30: Ludwich and West print Καλύβῃ with a capital, seeing an indirect reference to Iliad 2.857 and the Halizonian town of Ἀλύβη, which some then take to be a parody of the Homeric convention of heroes boasting of their birthplace. Apart from the irrelevance of his being born in Thrace, however, Crumb-Snatcher’s relevant boast is of his birth in a human hut where he was nurtured on all their good foods, which he proceeds to catalogue. Hosty strangely seems to suggest that Crumb-Snatcher himself is alluding to Calybe as a great Mouse City. The narrator, of course, may arguably be playing an intertextual game, but surely it is not one that the characters themselves have been let in on. Similarly, to have Crumb-Snatcher describing himself as being “sent out to pasture” (Hosty’s emendation) by his mother is completely disconnected from the overall picture that emerges in Crumb-Snatcher’s self-presentation of a life with “ἐδέσμασι παντοδαποῖσιν” and his wont to “ὅσσα παρ’ ἀνθρώποις τρώγειν.” Τhe word “καλύβῃ” first appears in poetry in Theocritus (Id. 21.7), but is well-attested in prose as early as Herodotus with the meaning of “hut”.

Lines 42-52: Editors are unanimous in deleting the following eleven lines as an interpolation for assorted reasons,but not least because they interrupt Crumb-Snatcher’s account of the differences between the food of frogs and mice. These verses include some arresting images, however, and give a glimpse of an antagonism between mice and humans that only makes an appearance in Nibble-Bread’s account of the death of his three sons, cf. line 117. Most editors take the correspondences between these lines and Nibble-Bread’s speech to be further reason for their exclusion here. With these lines omitted, Crumb- Snatcher’s account of his relation with humans is unrealistically benign, which seems consistent with his self-presentation to Puff-Jaw. Lines 44 and 45 do not scan.

42  οὐδέποτε πτολέμοιο κακὴν ἀπέφυγον ἀϋτήν,

43  ἀλλ’ εὐθὺς μετὰ μῶλον ἰὼν προμάχοισιν ἐμίχθην.

44  ἄνθρωπον οὐ δέδια καί περ μέγα σῶμα φοροῦντα,

45  ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ λέκτρον ἰὼν ἄκρον δάκτυλον δάκνω,

46  καὶ πτέρνης λαβόμην, καὶ οὐ πόνος ἵκανεν ἄνδρα,

47  νήδυμος οὐκ ἀπέφυγεν ὕπνος δάκνοντος ἐμεῖο.

48  ἀλλὰ δύω μάλα πάντα τὰ δείδια πᾶσαν ἐπ’ αἶαν,

49  κίρκον καὶ γαλέην, οἵ μοι μέγα πένθος ἄγουσιν,

50  καὶ παγίδα στονόεσσαν, ὅπου δολόεις πέλε πότμος·

51  πλεῖστον δὴ γαλέην περιδείδια, ἥ τις ἀρίστη,

52  ἣ καὶ τρωγλοδύνοντα κατὰ τρώγλην ἐρεείνει.

*******

42  Never did I flee the baneful cry of war,

43  but going at once to the struggle I clashed among the fore-fighters.

44  I do not fear a human even though bearing a great body,

45  but going to his bed I bite the tip of his finger,

46  and I would take hold of his heel, and pain was not affecting the man,

47  sweet sleep did not flee while I was biting.

48  But altogether there are two fears in all the world,

49  a hawk and weasel, which bring me great affliction,

50  and the moaning trap, where there is a deceitful fate;

51  most of all I greatly fear the weasel, which is best,

52  and even seeks me creeping into my hole.

Line 63: Most editors prefer ὄληαι from ὄλλυμι, ‘perish,’ which is more widely attested. Rhetorically, ὄληαι seems maladroit, however, and hardly would help to convince Crumb-Snatcher to mount given the extreme nature of the warning. ὀλίσθῃς (in the 11th century Laurentianus) from ὀλισθάνω fits the narrative better at this point given that frogs are thought to be slimy and are indeed so because of their mucus coating. As it turns out, however, Crumb-Snatcher is unable to hold fast and is destroyed, so it might be argued that he was given fair warning. In any case, it is never exactly clear why he does decide to mount, so perhaps the strength of a warning at this point is not ultimately relevant to his decision.

Lines 74-76: The mouse is using his tail perhaps for his own balance or to influence the course of the frog. This is a charming image, but these lines have been suspected because of their awkward narrative position and the repetition of vocabulary. It seems unlikely that this image found its way into the text by way of the scholia, however, and can plausibly be taken to be based on an independent creation of the poet. Also, the claim in favor of excision that elements in these lines are repetitions of others nearby is rather circular, since the larger section seems to have become in general an unwieldy expansion. There is little question that this stretch of text is problematic and that no convincing solution has been found. We include it with the idea that somewhere beneath all the textual chaos Crumb-Snatcher’s tail has some role to play. 

Line 77: καὶ τοῖον φάτο μῦθον ἀπὸ στόματός τ’ ἀγόρευσεν - We omit line 77 though some editors retain it thinking that it introduces the simile at 78-81 which they interpret as self-address. Christensen and Robinson (ad loc.) argue that “such a generalizing introduction may derive from the epic’s engagement with the tradition of fables.” Though not impossible, and although their commentary helpfully emphasizes traditions of animal fables, we none the less find it unlikely that Crumb-Snatcher would be describing his present circumstances to himself or to Puff-Jaw in the third person. So too, direct speeches typically have a closing formula (99), though here the sudden appearance of the water snake may obviate this convention. If retained, it may suggest that the poet, not only is alluding to conventions of animal fable, but also is humorously endowing Crumb-Snatcher with even further elements of high performative culture.

Line 88: This line is well attested, but many commentators bracket it. Hosty, for example, argues that Crumb- Snatcher wringing his paws while drowning is unrealistic--this about a mouse who earlier was reproaching his change of mind while tearing out his hair and is now about to give a long soliloquy. Nor is it particularly dubious metrically, since not rarely does the thesis itself, here in the second foot, lengthen a short final syllable (χεῖρας), even when, as here, no pause (or paws) follows, cf. e.g., Iliad 2.39.

Line 97a: ποινὴν ἀντέκτισίν τ´ὀρθὴν ὅς κ´ἀποδώσει

Line 98: τοῖς τίσουσί σε μυῶν στρατῷ οὐδ’ ὑπαλύξεις

The above couplet is omitted by the majority of editors as a Byzantine interpolation. They are metrically and syntactically problematic. M.L. West attempts to save line 98 because of the specificity of a dying prophesy which is in the manner of the Iliad. Based on Barnes’, he emends to ποινὴν αὖ τείσεις σὺ μυῶν στρατῷ, οὐδ’ ὑπαλύξεις which he translates as “you will pay the penalty to the mouse army and not escape.” This would be an intriguing feature of the poem; however, its support is tenuous.

Line 117: ἣν παγίδα καλέουσι, μυῶν ὀλέτειραν ἐοῦσαν. - Although omission of this line would preserve the symmetry of the surrounding couplets for the death of each son, it is well attested.

Line 121: σώματα κοσμήσαντες ἐν ἔντεσι δαιδαλέοισιν - A number of editors omit this line since it seems weak and anticlimactic after 120.

Line 123: Some editors omit this line. because they think the gods, except for Zeus, are not involved in helping the combatants or they believe that Ares is not used here symbolically or as a personification. In Homer, Ares is ἆτος πολέμοιο (Iliad 5.388, 863, 6.203), whereas warriors are πτολέμοιο μεμηλώς, Iliad 13.297, 469. Hosty finds the line “pointless” and, since only Iliadic warriors are πτολέμοιο μεμηλώς, “bizarre” to compare an “allegorical” Ares to an Iliadic hero. Elsewhere in the Iliad, however, forms of μέλω regularly occur with the gods, e.g., Zeus, 1.523, Athena, 19.343, and Apollo, 21.516. So too, it hardly seems a stretch for a god of war to be intent on war. We follow Wölke (ad loc.) in thinking that it is not clear why allegory, or even less personification, should rob a figure of intent given that these rhetorical figures can function on different levels. Moreover, both the conflict as a whole (4) and a weapon (130) in this very arming scene are described as ἔργον Ἄρηος.

Line 153: ἔνοπλοι - cf. line 132 for the parallel to mice. Some editors prefer σώματα κοσμήσαντες ἐν ὅπλοις, however there is no attested use of κοσμέω in which the dative is governed by a preposition for dressing the body in armor. Furthermore, it is not hard to imagine that a scribe viewing a manuscript without word spacing and possibly all capitals (ΕΝΟΠΛΟΙΣΤΩΜΕΝ) would inadvertently double the sigma thereby producing the alternate reading. This reading, in fact, scans, and is not, as osme have suggested, merely a scribal error. Cf. Euripides Ph.1359, ἐπεί δὲ χαλκέοις σῶμ’ ἐκοσμήσανθ’ ὅπλοις.

Line 157: σὺν ἐκείνῳ - (“with that one”, i.e., Crumb-Snatcher). An alternative reading, σὺν ἐκείναις, would have Puff-Jaw exhorting the frogs to throw the mice into the water along with those (σὺν ἐκείναις) i.e., helmets. In some ways this is attractive, since συμβάλλω suggests throwing something together along with something else into the pond, which is the frogs’ (unrealized though cf. l. 232) strategy, i.e., to grab the mice by their helmets and throw them together with their helmets into the pond. The demonstrative, however, is likely an instance of distal deixis and militates against this; accordingly, Puff-Jaw is pointing far off to the fallen enemy for emphasis—though at this point the body of Crumb- Snatcher is said to have floated away from shore. The frogs do not seem to follow either strategy.

Line 162: καλῶν χλοερῶν ἀπὸ σεύτλων - M. L. West emends to καλοὺς, because perhaps, like Hosty, he finds the double adjective odd. It is not odd enough to emend, however, since there are certainly instances of such double adjectives in poetry, and indeed epic poetry, see, Panyassis fr. 7; fr. 9.1.

Line 165: καὶ κόρυθες - The majority reading καί ῥα κέρα is adopted by many editors, however the “horns,” or antennae of snails make for improbable head-protection for frogs. It seems likely that the reading of (l) that we adopt is an attempt to remedy the problem, but at least it makes for a more plausible reading. Hosty takes κέρα to mean “shell”, but we can find no support for this.

Lines 202-303: The poem’s last 100 verses close with the battle, but it presents a morass of textual problems because the manuscripts reflect at least two different recensions (on which see Glei 1984). Recension (a) is thought to be closer to the original Hellenistic version, while the second (l) because of metrical problems and obvious elements of Byzantine Greek poetry is thought to be a medieval Greek interpolation. A third group of manuscripts takes elements from both and is used by most modern scholars in an attempt to patch together some coherence. In the main we follow Hosty’s edition which offers a viable text—i.e., it follows grammatical and metrical rules—and makes “at least half- way acceptable sense” (p. 80), though we often signal disagreements, as should students attempting to piece together the action for themselves.

Line 205: δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε’ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ - This line, frequently in Homer, seems pleonastic and sequentially out of place. The clattering of armor would be the only sound in an otherwise silent and purely visual battle. Nor is armor elsewhere mentioned during the fighting (cf. note 255).

Lines 210-222: The following lines are omitted:

210   ̓Αρτοφάγος δὲ Πολύφωνον κατὰ γαστέρα τύψε·

211 ἤριπε δὲ πρηνής, ψυχὴ δὲ μελέων ἐξέπτη.

212  Λιμνόχαρις δ’ ὡς εἶδεν ἀπολλύμενον Πολύφωνον,

213a πέτρῳ μυλοειδέϊ· τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε·

214a ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν ἔσπασεν ἔγχος· ἐφωρμήθησαν δ’ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ

216  Λειχήνωρ δ’ αὐτοῖο τιτύσκετο δουρὶ φαεινῷ

217  καὶ βάλεν, οὐδ’ ἀφάμαρτε καθ’ ἧπαρ· ὡς δ’ ἐνόησε

222 χορδῇσιν λιπαρῇσί τ’ ἐπορνύμενος λαγόνεσσιν.

*******

210  Bread-Eater struck Wordy through the belly;

211  he fell headlong, and his soul flew from his limbs.

212  When Pond-Grace saw Wordy in his ruin,

213a with a rock like a mill-stone; and darkness covered his eyes;

214a but he drew his spear; and they rushed upon him

216  Licks-a-Lot aimed at him with his shining spear

217  and he cast, nor did he miss him through the liver; when he perceived

222 launching himself (?) on fatty intestines and flanks.

Line 215: ἔγχος ἐναντίον· - Some scholars place the high period after ἔγχος, but ἐναντίον is unattested with ὡς δ’ which is typically clause-initial. Furthermore, if ἐναντίον is taken with φεύγοντα (line 218), it suggests that Spice-Muncher is fleeing towards Basilson, which, pace West, seems narratively implausible. If taken with ἔγχος, it is adjectival, ‘facing, opposite.’

Line 218: Κοστοφάγον - West conjectures Κρουστοφάγον and translates “Pastrygobble.” “Pastry” is more directly supported by Latin and Old French, not Greek. Fusillo’s “Mangiaspezie” is to the point and, in general, “Mangiaprosciutto”, “Navigapentole”, “Abitabuchi”, etc., make most English renderings since the days of Chapman and Samuel Wesley seem rather flat and unmusical.

Line 219: An alternate reading has μάχης, but we prefer ἐν ὕδασιν in light of line 220.

Line 222: χορδῇσιν λιπαρῇσί τ’ ἐπορνύμενος λαγόνεσσιν

χορδῇσιν: χορδή -ῆς, ἡ, ‘bowels, intestines.’

λιπαρῇσί: λιπαρός -ά -όν, ‘plump, fat, of animals.’

ἐπορνύμενος: masc. sg. nom. pres. act. part., ἐπόρνυμι, ‘to rise up, launch oneself.’

λαγόνεσσιν: λαγών -όνος, ἡ, ὁ, ‘flank.’

This line presents many difficulties both in terms of its position and meaning. West concludes simply that the line is out of place. Hosty inserts it after 219 and translates, “rushing to strike at his guts and the slimy sheen of his flanks.” However, xορδή is not Homeric and τά ἔντερα in Homer are never attacked directly, but gush out of wounds after an attack. By the same token ἐπόρνυμι (to rouse to action) is used only once in Homer for rushing upon someone (cf. Iliad 21.324), but not for attacking a body part. Perhaps the image invoked is of the dead mouse stretched out floating on his intestines, in which case the text would need a word more like ἐπαιρόμενος in its non-figurative sense of ‘raised up on.’ We omit the line, however, since it seems beyond repair.

Lines 230-235: These lines have become central for assessing deeply divergent views of the poem. In one version we have a frog, Sea-Weed dragging Lick-Platter, a mouse who has just been killed in the previous lines and is dead (νεκρὸν ἐοντα), to the pond and then “drowning” him. This is immediately followed by the appearance of a mouse named Crumb-Snatcher, who, if he is to be identified with the Crumb- Snatcher who earlier drowned when abandoned by Puff-Jaw (99) and whose body was last seen drifting from the shore, would seem to have inexplicably come back to life. Some scholars have found these lines to constitute deeply important parodic features of the poem. Whereas Homer in his nearly 28,000 verses occasionally nods and treats minor warriors who have been killed as still being alive, our poet, they argue, is intentionally engaging in a learned parody of such Homeric lapses. In favor of this view is that both the “drowning” and appearance of Crumb-Snatcher are supported by the a and l recensions of the text, as well as by the majority of manuscripts. We thus print these versions. However, some scholars find all this much too cartoonish, given the tone of the rest of the battle, and insofar as the textual tradition is so garbled anyway, they emend lines 232 and 234 or explain the latter away (see next note). So, for instance, Christensen and Robinson rather than νεκρὸν ἐοντα at line end adopt an older tradition (e.g., G. C. Crusius, 1837) of emending on the basis of J, and introducing a live mouse who is dragged off and drowned, Kνισσοδιώκτην (Fat-Hunter)-- (Κνισσοδιώκτης -ου, ὁ, [κνῖσα, διώκτης], ‘Fat-Hunter.’ κνῖσα -ης, ἡ can refer to the smoke or fat of animals at a sacrifice, but mice are likely more interested in the fat; διώκτης -ου, ὁ, ‘one who pursues, hunter’). We ourselves have been unable to come to an agreement, so in deference to Mitsis’s age and the fact that he was Grimbilas’ professor, we have printed the text of the majority of manuscripts. Grimbilas, however, prefers the following:

Λειχοπίναξ δ’ ἔπεφνεν ἀμύμονα Βορβοροκοίτην,

ἔγχει ἐπαΐξας· τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψεν.

Πρασσεῖος δ’ ἐσιδὼν ποδὸς εἵλκυσε Kνισσοδιώκτην

ἐν λίμνῃ δ’ ἀπέπνιξε κρατήσας χειρὶ τένοντα.

Ψιχάρπαξ δ’ ἤμυν’ ἑτάρου περὶ τεθνειῶτος

καὶ βάλε Πρασσεῖον μήπω γαίης ἐπιβάντα

This possibility is given so little credence by Hosty that he does not even cite it in his apparatus, perhaps because, like Mitsis, he believes that, apart from its lack of manuscript support, it is an obvious attempt at correction made in the light of the incongruity of attempting to drown the dead. To be sure, it is neither strongly attested nor without problems of its own since διώκτης (pursuer, persecutor) is not extant elsewhere before 1Tim. 1.13, although the verb itself with this meaning is found as far back as Homer. But as Grimbilas notes, the addition of an ending which marks an agent should not be seen as particularly problematic in itself and, more important, this reading offers a plausible realistic narrative.

A few observations about the drowning itself, however. Whatever the existential status or identity of the mouse being dragged to the pond, the method of drowning itself is hardly clear, though it may leave clues to a putative original. Hosty suspects that this might be an elaborate allusion to Thetis holding the infant Achilles by his heel (tendon) and dipping him into the Styx—which is highly speculative given that there is no literary evidence for this particular story before Statius, nor is there any clear surviving material evidence that the poet of the BM might have known, though this in itself is not necessarily probative. Certainly, an easier and more realistic means of drowning would be to hold a live victim down by means of the tendons of the neck. Singular τένοντα, however, raises a problem for this kind of more realistic drowning scenario if we take Homeric usage to be a constraint, since neck tendons in Homer are in the plural or dual. This leads Hosty to claim that the tendon here must refer to the ankle. But it is not clear that the poet of the BM might not have innovated when it comes to tendons and this could be a reference to a tendon of the neck. Yet, if the mouse is already dead, then attempted drowning by dragging it into the water by its ankle is perhaps less implausible than first propping it up and then holding its head under water. By the same token, first holding it high and then dipping it by its ankle is implausible whether it is dead or still alive (a possible meaning of νεκρὸν is “dying”). Of course, one needs to explain why the frog would attempt to drown a dead mouse in the first place--did he not realize the mouse was dead? Was it only dying? Holding a live creature’s neck and pushing its head in the water to drown it suggests a potentially less cartoonish original that, as proponents of realism hold, may reflect a more straightforward underlying account of an action that has subsequently been garbled. But this too is pure speculation and any sort of coherent realistic explanation is hard to come by from the text as is. If one rejects Fat-Hunter, one tack is to just accept the line as hopelessly confused and not read too much into it. Another is to entertain Hosty’s alternative claim (2017) that this line is part of an elaborate web of intertextual relations surrounding Iliad 21 and Achilles’ fight with Scamander. Students may want to avail themselves of the opportunity to assess further whether these passages can bear the weight of his undeniably interesting claims about the poem’s view of life, death, and resurrection. Bauer (2020) argues that such cartoonish features are a matter of generic self-consciousness, though given that the Batrachomyomachia hardly constitutes a genre all by itself, one wonders how one assesses which features are part of a genre and which are not, especially when they so precariously hang on textual choices that have such fragile footing, generic or otherwise.

Line 234: As with the two Ajaxes, some scholars argue that this might be a second Crumb-Snatcher, though the two are not explicitly differentiated in any way. See Kelly (2009) for a detailed argument for resurrection as a parody of Homer who occasionally nods and depicts as living, warriors who have been killed previously--famously Pylaemenes, the Paphlagonian, mourns his son (Il. 13.658) after being killed eight books earlier (Il. 5.576–79) and this was remarked upon by ancient scholars. Others argue that this a manuscript problem or an artistic lapse, though given the previous lines this is also a deeply tangled claim. From early on, scholars have offered emendations to resolve the difficulty. Λειχάρπαξ (“Lick-Snatcher”), a name incorporating two central features of mice, appears in (F), (V in Allen), the late thirteenth century Vatican manuscript. See Christensen and Robinson ad loc and Ludwig “Oil Thief” for discussion.

Line 235: μήπως γαίης ἐπιβάντα - “that he somehow not set foot on land”. μήπω (aS) printed by Hosty makes little sense and needs to be corrected. See Odyssey 5.415-16 for an appropriate parallel: “μήπως μ ̓ ἐκβαίνοντα βάλῃ λίθακι ποτὶ πέτρῃ κῦμα μέγ ̓ ἁρπάξαν·”. Some scholars prefer this reading because Πρασσεῖος is killed in the water before he has a chance to set foot on land after “drowning” Λειχοπίναξ or killing Κνισσοδιώκτης. The alternate reading preferred by Allen, “κατὰ νηδύος ἐς μέσον ἧπαρ,” preserves the motif detailing where in the body a weapon strikes, cf. line 203. The negative of the participle is οὐ, except when the participle has a general or conditional force, as here. ἐπιβαίνω (+gen) is, ‘to walk upon, set foot on, or in, intrans. act. and mid.

Line 247: Σιτοφάγος - Attested in a number of manuscripts (FLS), the reading “Grain-Muncher”, a mouse, avoids the resurrection entailed by Τρωγλοδύτης (aZ) killed at 213, cf. 230-232, 234. Hosty omits the line entirely. Another manuscript reading, πρασσοφάγος, would not be a suitable name for a mouse since frogs are associated with leeks, cf. notes 232, 252.

Line 249: In this couplet, lines 247 and 249, a mouse previously unintroduced in the preceding narrative leaps (ἥλατο) into the ditches in flight at the sight of a frog. In 224-25 we have a similar couplet, unconnected with the preceding action, in which a frog leaps (ἥλατο) into the pond and throws away his shield at the sight of a mouse. Both of these follow graphic slayings. This parallel perhaps lends support to the proposed reconstruction. In Hosty’s version, Puff-Jaw implausibly leaps into the ditches with a wounded foot to make his escape. At Iliad 11.399, even Diomedes, wounded in the foot, must use a chariot to leave battle and return to the ships.

Line 250: ἐς πόδα ἄκρον - In order to avoid hiatus, recent editors prefer ποδὸς. However, there are many examples in Homer where an older formula gets modified, usually from one case to another, but the principle would apply to a change in number. The result is an understood modification in grammar. Thus here, πόδας ἄκρους > πόδα ἄκρον. In any case, hiatus is not the most serious metrical flaw, and it occurs in nearly ten percent of the poem’s verses.

Line 255: By treating the mice as proper names (following Ludwich) and having Pierce-Glance encounter them and being attacked by them in turn, it preserves the narrative continuity. Hosty prints τοῦ δ’ ἔβαλε τρυφάλειαν ἀμύμονα καὶ τετράχυτρον and translates, “And he was struck on the splendid helmet, crafted of four pots’ contents.” Τρωξάρτης being struck wearing such elaborate headgear presents two problems. Elsewhere, armor (cf. note 205) and helmets are never mentioned in battle, only spears, swords, and shields; moreover, mice helmets are made from the husk of chickpeas (line 131). West’s emendation τετραλέπυρον, “four-husk,” accounts for line 131 but he has to postulate a gap in the narrative to explain the plural ὥρμησαν in line 258, and it also would be the singular instance of armor being struck in battle. We emend τρυφάλειαν to Τροφάλειoν which moves the narrative from improbable armory to two plausible mouse names for Pierce-Glance’s opponents.

Line 259: ἥρωας κρατερούς, ἀλλ’ ἔδυνε βένθεσι λίμνης. - We preserve Z’s reading ἥρωας κρατερούς as opposed to Hosty’s emendation, ἥρωος κρατερὸν μένος.

Line 262: It remains unclear why Grater himself is not joining the battle, though age is a probable reason.

Line 272: “Ὤ πόποι, ἦ μέγα ἔργον ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι” occurs in Homer (Iliad 13.99, 15.286, 20.344, 21.54, Odyssey 19.36) but is never spoken by a god. Typically, it is mortals who marvel at divine manifestations.

Lines 273-274: We generally follow Hosty’s solution though we print Baumeister’s emendation of οὐ μ’ ὀλίγον for οὐ μικρόν με. Ἐπαπειλῶν appears in Z which has the effect of removing Share-Snatcher from actual fighting and raises the important question about whether he actually ever goes into battle. We never see him fulfill his intent for combat in an encounter. The OCT reading ἐν βατράχοισιν ἀμείβεται suggests Share-Snatcher is passing in battle among the frogs. Cf. 276, 293.

Lines 287-288: Omitted from OCT. We print both lines with perhaps a plausible, but not unawkward, result.

Line 293: ὅς ῥα τότ’ ἐν βατράχοισιν ἀρωγοὺς εὐθὺς ἔπεμψεν - An alternate reading in (l,S), φθειρομένοισιν, (to those destroyed) suggests that the frogs have been destroyed; but have they been? In fact, the battlefield scorecard has the frogs leading seven to five.

Line 298: δικάρηνοι - A difficult expression since “two-headed” crabs makes no sense, given the rest of the poem’s naturalistic descriptions. Clarke emends to δικέραιοι, “two-horned,” since the extended eyes of a crab can appear to be horns. Hosty argues they can appear as heads. A further option, which we hesitantly adopt, is to take κάρηνον figuratively as “peaked”. Cf. Nussbaum (1986).

Line 298: ἀτειρέες - The manuscript reading ἀχειρέες, ‘without limbs, legs or claws,’ makes no sense. Nauck’s emendation is attractive.