I am Gneebert Halstein, a Minotaur of sturdy stock, though poor. Having lost my parents at a tender age, I was raised by my kindly Grandmother Bessibelle, a seamstress and haberdasher of some repute, though of advancing years. Her infirmities were beginning to affect the quality of her work, and she had it in mind to teach me her business, at which I strove but fared poorly. My large, rough hands were not able to master the art of stitching the fine fabrics of gloves and neckerchiefs, much to her disappointment and my chagrin.
As Grandmother grew older and her sight worsened, I sought other ways to support her and justify my presence under her roof. I turned to farm labor, and became a skilled reaper of crops, much in demand in harvest time–Indeed, I flatter myself that my skills with a scythe are second to none. Still, Grandmother and I had to scrape to make ends meet.
Much changed for me the day I met little Rosemary Sprig.
That day, as I strolled down the streets of my home town of Hornton, I saw a rare sight–a Pony from the remote and fabled nation of Equestria. Her green coat was scruffy, shaggy and unkempt, and her light-purple mane was tangled, as if she had rashly taken up an electric eel in her mouth and it had imparted such a burst to her mane that none of it might ever grow straight again.
My fellow ‘Taurians on the street simply glanced at the odd sight, shrugged or chuckled, and went about their business. But I stood and stared at her as if I’d been smacked between the eyes. She walked slowly, by rote, not seeming to see or care where she was going, and despite the shagginess of her coat I could see the signs of starvation.
I took pity on her instantly, and introduced myself. She said she had emigrated to our land a year ago, hoping to establish herself as a farmer, but she had swiftly run through her seed money and had neither the means to stay, or to return home. Though I could barely afford my own meal, I invited her to share it with me, and we talked together for what seemed like minutes but was in fact an hour. In short, we became fast friends, and I somewhat rashly invited her to stay at my home while she sought to mend her fortunes.
My Grandmother was too kind a person to strongly object, but a strange, scraggly pony was out of place in a traditional Minotaur household, and we could not afford another impoverished mouth to feed. Rosemary tried to appease Grandmother by grazing in the Commons, but no amount of currycombing could tame the wildness of Rosemary’s coat. As Rosemary and I were daily growing closer in our affections, Grandmother’s disapproval was hard news to bear.
And worse news lay ahead. A large rush order for white gloves had been placed by a wealthy patron, which was welcome business indeed. But Grandmother could no longer sew fast enough to finish such a job herself, and Rosemary’s seamstress skills were too rudimentary to help. Grandmother’s gentle but reproving looks shamed me, and I feared for her health as she worked into the night, ripping her imperfect efforts apart again and again. I knew she would never finish in time.
That evening, Rosemary and I discussed the matter, and I inquired about her magic talent, which I had heard all Equestrian Ponies possess. Did she have any Earthly power to help?
“Mine is a useless talent, Gnee, or I would have mentioned it sooner,” she sighed. “It is a sort of odd trick my aunt taught to me; in that we can sometimes coax odd things to grow in Equestrian soil, which is uncommonly rich and can impart life giving energy to other things than plants. It’s just that this trick is of such limited application that it is of scarely any use.”
“And what is it?”
“Where I sneeze on the ground… socks spring forth.”
“Socks, you say?”
“I say socks, sir!”
I mulled upon this information, scratching my head. The haberdashery did not lack for socks. However, I had the glimmering of an idea.
“Rosemary, your special talent was engendered in a faraway land where most inhabitants only had use for socks. Here, of course, it is desirable to have separate digits at the end.” I wiggled my fingers. “Do you think it possible that your talent might be taught to produce them?”
“We shall certainly try!” she declared, stamping her little hoof, with a determined look on her fluffy face that I found irresistibly adorable.
Through that week we strove together, working in a fallow field. I gave up my lunches to provide extra food to her to strengthen her powers. One day she managed to persuade her talent to produce a sock with a thumb on it–a mitten! This was definite progress, and soon after she had achieved a rudimentary toe sock with five wee socklets at the end. By week’s end, she could make a passable silken glove.
But it was not until the day before the deadline that we were entirely satisfied by the quality of her product, and thereafter we worked through the night. Rosemary sniffed pepper as she ran along the furrows, anointing them with her power, and I cried “Bless you” to encourage her as the gloves sprouted from the earth.
We worked into the morning, and as she fertilized the last row I saw a grand carriage in the distance, on its way to the shop!
“We must harvest them now!” I cried. Rosemary began to bite them free from the soil, but I could see we had no time to spare.
“Please permit me!” I said, taking up my scythe. I wielded it with my customary skill and zeal, and the gloves flew behind me, to one side then the other, in neat pairs which Rosemary caught, folded and placed in boxes. Thus, together we soon had all the gloves harvested and neatly packed.
Tired but triumphant, we rushed into the haberdashery, where Grandmother was just on the verge of kneeling and begging our patron for more time. But we proudly strode to the counter and placed the finished gloves before him! He was most pleased with their quality, and awarded Grandmother a bonus for a job well done.
Once he had left, Grandmother turned to us, weeping with joy and relief. “You both certainly have my thanks, and my blessings. How did you accomplish this miracle?”
Rosemary and I looked at each other with love, then turned back to Grandmother, a song rising in our hearts.
“Though she’s got no money, her fur looks kind of funny, and her mane is kind of wild and free…” I sang. “Oh, but gloves rose where my Rosemary snoze!”
“And nobody mows like Gnee!” she finished, hugging me close.
*****