The priest had horses and a cart. He was vexed about the osier baskets for the maize; only the backs and sides of them still remained. He was ashamed that a priest like himself should have to go to the market without any maize-baskets. He could not borrow any, seeing he was at Saraceni, where even the priest had no proper maize-baskets. They say "Necessity is the best teacher." The Father sent Cozonac down the valley to fetch osiers, planted two stakes in the ground with thinner sticks set between them about a hand's breadth apart, and then the priest and his wife and children, and Cozonac too, began to plait the osiers in. Before long the baskets were ready. The work was not very remarkable, but for all that they were the best baskets in Saraceni, and so good that Cozonac could not refrain from saying, "The priest is one of the devil's own men!" To the market-place and from the market-place home the Father went proudly with his baskets; other people had some, but he found people could buy worse baskets than those he had made himself. "What is the priest making?" "Baskets for the maize." "But he has got some." "He is making them for those who have not got any." After Easter, Cozonac began to clear the pools of osiers which the priest wove into baskets. The longer the work continued, the better was it done; the last basket was always the best. Marcu Flori Cucu was a sensible man. He liked to stay and talk to the priest. Cozonac cleared the osiers, the priest plaited them, while Marcu lay upon his stomach with his head in his hands and idly watched. "This osier is a little too long," said the priest, measuring the osier with his eye. "Here, Marcu! Give me the hatchet to make it shorter." The hatchet was at Marcu's feet. Marcu raised the upper part of his body, supported himself on his elbows, stretched out his legs, and began feeling about for the hatchet, trying to draw it up by his feet. "Make haste!" said the priest, and gave him a cut with the osier. Marcu jumped up and assured the priest that he was much more nimble than he thought. In the end, this assurance was of great use to him. By Whitsuntide the priest had a cart-load of baskets ready to take to the market, and Marcu knew very well that if the priest sold the baskets he would have a cheerful holiday. The priest had had help for some weeks, and the help had always brought a reward to the man who had given it. Just before Whitsuntide the rain began, and seemed as though it would never cease. "I do not know what I shall do," said the priest. "It seems as though I must leave the market until after Whitsuntide. I do not like going in the rain. If it does not stop raining by Thursday, I just shall not go." Marcu scratched himself behind his ears and said nothing. He could see that it did not suit the priest to get soaked. "Here," he said a little later, ceasing to plait, "couldn't we weave an awning? There are reeds and rushes and osiers in the valley."