I am Gneebert Halstein, a Minotaur of sturdy stock. Orphaned in youth, I was raised by my kindly Grandmother Bessibelle, a haberdasher. She tried to train me in her trade, but while I understood the responsibilities well enough, my hands were too large and rough to sew the fine fabrics of gloves and neckerchiefs. As Grandmother grew older and her sight worsened, I found work as a farm laborer, and I flatter myself that my skills with a scythe are second to none. Still, despite my added income, we had to scrape to make ends meet.

One day, as I strolled down the streets of Hornton, I saw a rare sight–a Pony from the nation of Equestria. Her green coat was scruffy and her light-purple mane was tangled, and she walked as if dazed and lost. I took pity on her instantly, and introduced myself. She said her name was Rosemary, and she had emigrated to our land a year ago, but fortune had not been kind. In short, we became fast friends, and I somewhat rashly invited her home.

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 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.

One 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. “Where I sneeze on the ground, socks spring forth.”

“Socks, you say?”

“I say socks, sir!”

“Hmmm… We do not lack socks. But do you suppose that your talent might be taught to produce, say, [i]fingers[/i] at the end of those socks?”

“We shall certainly try!” she declared, stamping her little hoof with a determined look that I found 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 produced a thumb on one of her sneezesocks, making a mitten, and we rejoiced. The next day, she progressed to toe-socks, and 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, and thence 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 sprang 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, taking up my scythe. With great swings I cut free the gloves, while Rosemary folded and wrapped them neatly.

Tired but triumphant, we rushed into the haberdashery, where Grandmother was on the verge of 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.

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