"THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR IS HARD."

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 3490, 13 September 1882, Page 2

"THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR IS HARD."

A LOCAL STORY WITH A MORAL. A correspondent sends us the follow* ing with a request that we will give it publication in our columns :— Two residents of Napier, an horolbgist arid a pletian disciple of Michael Angelo, started from town on Sunday week to ride overland to Wairoa, intending to halt en route for the night at Mohaka. The journey as far as Moeangiangi was uneventful, but shortly after leaving that place their "fiery untamed steeds" (to use a conventional expression) showed a very decided disinclination to proceed farther, and, like Mark Twain's horse, were disposed to lean against every available object that offered the advantage of a rest. Darkness now commenced to close in, rendering it all the more imperative for our hardy wayfarers, who were hardly acquainted with the road, to push along with all possible haste, and two immense flax sticks, together with an equal number of pairs'of .bloodstained spurs, were vigorously applied as a motive power to propel the recalcitrant horses. But all in vain ; the jaded animals absolutely objected to be coerced into.the disagreeable duty, and simultaneously " struck." Fifteen miles from the nearest settlement upon a bleak hillside on ajspld dark night, a drizzling rain falling, and with neither topcoats nor wraps of any description to shield them from the elements, .was certainly not a cheerful situation for two weary horsemen unaccustomed to "roughing, it," fbuf there was no alternative, and preparations were instituted for passing a night in the open air. The horses were soon conveniently " hitched," and with tbe sky for a coverlet, and a heap of fern for a bed, our modern babes in the wood pulled their hats over their eyes in sheer desperation, and lay down together, muttering a prayer that must have caused the recording angel to drop the customary tear. Like true friends in misfortune neither one reproached the other, but both quaffed without a single murmur the bitter cup of misery their neglect of. the Fourth Commandment had put; to their lips ; in fact they even went so far as to share together an humble repast consisting of a solitary orange and a pipefull of tobacco, which tbe knight of the paint brush discovered "in his clothes" on retiring to rest. Sad and sleepless were the hours until day broke, when, to use tbe words of the novelist, two shivering forms might have been seen winding their way along the tortuous - track that leads towards Mohaka, where we will leave them, and endeavor in some degree to imagine their feeling! as they descry the land of promise and a good "f breakfast seme twelve miles in the distance, Moral: Don't go riding on the Sabbath—unless you have a good horse.