bare

As they were on the bare plowlands, eating there wheat-stocks and roots pulled up from the hedgerow, the Town Mouse said to his friend, “You live here the life of the ants, while in my house is the horn of plenty.

I prefer my bare plowlands and roots from the hedgerow, where I can live in safety, and without fear.”

The whitewashed walls were so painfully bare and staring that she thought they must ache over their own bareness.

The floor was bare, too, except for a round braided mat in the middle such as Anne had never seen before.