A Crisp Snip of Twine

I slipped through the gate into the cathedral's outer herb garden, where the earth smelled deep and peppery. Beside a row of dry rosemary sprigs, a wooden seed tray rested on an upturned stone pot. Sticking out from a corner was a forgotten spool of rough jute garden twine, with a pair of small floral shears lying nearby. I padded over quietly and nudged the loose end of the string with my paw. Guiding the rough fiber between the open metal blades, I pressed down on the top handle with both forepaws. With a dull, fibrous snip, a neat two-inch piece tumbled onto the gravel, ready for tying up a tiny sprig.