The jaunty little runabout pulled by a chestnut mare sped along at a good clip, its spoked wheels flashing in the evening sun. The bench seat, with room for only two, bounced a little on leaf springs designed to smooth the ride in places where the road wasn’t always so even.
The two occupants of the seat, listening to the rapid clippity-clip of the horse’s hooves on the stony lane, didn’t much care why the ride was smooth; they simply enjoyed the sense of unimpeded speed and the proximity of their seatmate as the miles toward home disappeared behind them.
As they approached the river crossing ahead, the pretty young lady spoke to the young man beside her. Immediately, he gave a tug on the leather reins and was rewarded by a reduction in speed almost as quickly as it had taken to pull the reins. The chestnut was no newcomer to this route, realizing that she never sped across the covered bridge. A walk was all that was ever allowed across the wooden platform.
Who knows? She might even get a break from moving at all if the young fellow took advantage of the enclosed bridge to sneak a kiss or two from his young sweetheart. It had happened before. Folks did call them kissing bridges. Regardless, the mare knew to walk across the bridge.
It was the law and her owner always followed the law. Always.