The sheep have been driven off the land below; the
cattle stand ranged shivering on high dykes inland; they will be
saved in punts, if the worst befall. But a hundred spades, wielded
by practised hands, cannot stop that tiny rat-hole. The trickle
becomes a rush--the rush a roaring waterfall. The dyke-top trembles-
-gives. The men make efforts, desperate, dangerous, as of sailors in
a wreck, with faggots, hurdles, sedge, turf: but the bank will
break; and slowly they draw off; sullen, but uncomplaining; beaten,
but not conquered. A new cry rises among them. Up, to save yonder
sluice; that will save yonder lode; that again yonder farm; that
again some other lode, some other farm, far back inland, but guessed
at instantly by men who have studied from their youth, as the
necessity of their existence, the labyrinthine drainage of lands
which are all below the water level, and where the inner lands, in
many cases, are lower still than those outside.
So they hurry away to the nearest farms; the teams are harnessed, the
waggons filled, and drawn down and emptied; the beer-cans go round
cheerily, and the men work with a sort of savage joy at being able to
do something, if not all, and stop the sluice on which so much
depends.
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