TOM BRAGWELL.
During my residence at a small town on the ⟨coast ⟩ last autumn, I went out one Sunday evening, in order to obtain a little relaxation from the ⟨fatigues⟩ of study, and inhale the refreshing breeze, (before lighting candle to resume my reading,) without expecting any thing to break in upon my reflections, or to draw off my attention from such scenes, as nature at this delightful season of the year, might ⟨present⟩ to my view.
My steps at first led me to the church-yard, ⟨and⟩ after having taken a few turns amongst the numerous mementos in this great school of morality, my ⟨mind⟩ filled with reflection, serious, mournfully pleasing⟨.⟩ I went forward into the fields, where I had not proceeded far until I was reminded of being again ⟨in⟩ the land of the living, by a confused kind of gabbling noise, which I found arose from some ⟨boys⟩ who had got into an adjoining field of beans, ⟨and⟩ were at once busily employed in talking, treading down the corn, and filling their pockets.—"There, said I, (alluding to the place I had just left,⟨)⟩ There the wicked cease from troubling; here, (looking to the place from whence the noise came⟨)⟩ I find them busy at work."
