Miss Clara tells: A Bundle of Sage

I pressed the small blade of my pocketknife against the woody base of a wild silver sage growing stubborn under the corral rail. The pale leaves gave off a sudden, peppery punch of camphor the second the bark gave way. It is a rough plant that asks nothing of the dry dirt, but moths have no stomach for its bite. I gathered four stout sprigs, shook out the grit, and bound their stems snug with a length of hemp twine from my apron. Tied upside down from a porch rafter, three days of wind will cure them dry enough to tuck between folded winter flannel.