When I leave the wood, I proceed to a well, and thence to the place which I use for snaring birds, with a book under my arm--Dante, or Petrarch, or one of the minor poets, like Tibullus or Ovid.

I read the story of their passions, and let their loves remind me of my own, which is a pleasant pastime for a while.

Next I take the road, enter the inn door, talk with the passers-by, inquire the news of the neighborhood, listen to a variety of matters, and make note of the different tastes and humors of men.

This brings me to dinner-time, when I join my family and eat the poor produce of my farm.

After dinner I go back to the inn, where I generally find the host and a butcher, a miller, and a pair of bakers.