The monster waddled up the path to the wash house, squelching with every step. It stalked it's prey, a salmon coloured mare, busying herself in an outhouse. Lowering its slime covered head, the monster approached with caution.
"Not the pond again Fish!" Exclaimed Sam, without looking up.
The little filly stood in the yard, water dripping from her tail. "It just sort of happened. I was chasing a butterfly and it won by fluttering over the pond."
Sam looked around at her aquatic offspring. "It's a good job it's washing day, because that hat will need more than a lick to get it clean."
Sticks were already alight under the huge copper kettle that stood in the corner on its own brick plinth. Sam worked the handle of the mechanical pump, filling it near the top before opening a fresh bar of soap. In a wooden tub was stacked white linen and next to it a pile of darker clothing.
Sam asked Fish to fetch the tin bath, a hollow scraping noise and a clang indicating its arrival. She half filled it with cold water and topped it up with hot. "In you go," she said, as Fish stepped into the warm water. Fish then spent the next ten minutes grumbling as her mother set to with the bristle brush.
"You'll scrub my mane off," she protested, as a final sluice down removed the soap bubbles revealing her cloud grey coat.
"No more running around and getting into trouble for a bit," said Sam. "You can help me with the clothes."
Fish dragged a hoof on the ground, "But it's so boring!"
"Then you had better figure out a way to make it interesting then!" came her mothers reply. "At Black Brook Farm it's washing day."
The filly grinned. "Sounds like the start of another poem."
"Then you can sing about rinsing out mud and the dust of hay," said Sam as she held up a jacket she had found in the barn. Placing it in the dolly tub she worked the dolly this way and that to bash and twist the dirt from the fibres. "We'll need more hot water in bit," she said wiping sweat from her brow with a hoof. "Put some more wood on the fire would you?"
"Fire is stoked with orange flame," Fish thought to herself as she fetched more wood. "Would that work?" she asked Sam as she recited the line out loud.
"A third line already," Sam replied with a smile. "It'll be an epic of a poem if you keep up this pace."
Fish built up the hearth carefully and stoked it to bring up a bright orange flame. Then she picked up one of her dad's shirts and began cleaning its sleeves. Glyn's best shirts had to be boiled to get them white, with any marks given a good rub with the soap. "Blocks of soap for stubborn stain," she muttered in her mothers tone as she scrubbed.
They worked steadily through the pile, gradually reducing it's size. The fire crackled and the haze of steam grew ever thicker, misting up the outhouse windows and forming trickles down the glass panes.
They hadn't realised it was lunch time until Glyn came in from weeding the big field. The three of them sat in the sunshine and finished off a loaf of oat bread that needed eating. He told them of a black bird that had followed him up and down the field all morning grabbing any worms that he dislodged.
"It had so many worms in its mouth it looked like Fish on spaghetti night!" he proclaimed.
"Ooh gross," said Sam. "You can't un-see that image in a hurry. It's certainly a good excuse to get back to work. Come on Fish, lets have at it."
Listening to the dull rhythmic thud of the dolly tub next to her Fish suggested; "Force out the dirt with wooden dolly?"
Sam turned to her and grinned. "Remove the grime of Fish's folly!"
They both laughed at this and were spurred on to get the job finished.
"I like to Sing rhyme and verse, it makes it fun," said Fish.
"Yes," Sam agreed. "I suppose all the old songs started out as a way to keep up a smile. A way for folk to make the day pass by."
Finally they were down to the last two garments. "Come on little Fish, keep up the pace, we're nearly done," said Sam with a grin. "It won't take long to run it through the mangle."
Sam decided Fish should turn the handle and she would pass everything between the large wooden rollers. For the sake of a peaceful day it was worth avoiding anything that Fish could get trapped in. Of all her gadgets this was Sam's favourite. Before they got it wringing out the washing was an arduous task. So much water was still left in that she had once broken the washing line with the weight. With all lying in the dirt she could do nothing but start all over the next day. The thought made her wince.
What had been a heap of dirty clothing was now a neat pile of wet clean clothing in a wicker basket. They finished up and went out into the yard to the washing line. Fish nudged the basket along with her nose as Sam hung up the various garments. Reaching back into her cloth saddle bag Sam grabbed some pegs in her mouth and then, rearing up, placed a large cotton shirt over the line and deftly set two pegs. They continued this along the length of the thin rope until the basket was empty.
"Time for a break," Said Sam.
Sitting on an upturned trough they watched contentedly, drinking fresh apple juice and adding the final touches to their new poem. As they chatted the washing swung back and forth in the summer breeze, gently drying itself in ready for a new day.
The End
Pony Poets Washing Day
At Black Brook Farm it's washing day,
Rinse out mud and dust of hay,
Fire is stoked with orange flame,
Blocks of soap for stubborn stain.
Force out the dirt with wooden dolly,
Remove the grime of Fish's folly,
Sing rhyme and verse to make it fun,
Keep up the pace until we are done.