A plank of good oak, set beside the path, and no man made to work upon it.
I sat me down, for my legs are old and the winter took two of my toes. And I waited. Surely there was a purpose in it. Surely the reeve would come and set me to mending the fence, or bid me haul, or count the sitting as my rest between two labors. But no one came. The bench asked nothing of me. It only held me up, as a good mother holds a babe, and let me watch the folk go by.
I have never in my life been given a place to rest that did not first cost me a harvest. A stool is a thing you earn by supper. This, a stranger built, and gave to no one, and to all. I could not fathom it. I looked long for the trick, the tithe, the lord who owned the sitting and would come demanding coin. None came.
A man lay full upon it in the daylight, hat over his eyes, snoring like a hog in August, and no one beat him nor called him idle. God preserve me, I near wept. In my village we do not lie down until the ground takes us for good.
So this is the strange mercy of a place with no want in it. They have grown so fat on ease they must build wood to hold their idleness upright.
I fear for their souls. And I sat there till dark, and I did not want to rise.