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e walls are really great banks, as wide as roads, and they are called "dikes."
Once there was a little boy who lived in that country, whose name was Hans. One day, he took his little brother out to play. They went a long way out of the town, and came to where there were no houses, but ever so many flowers and green fields. By-and-by, Hans climbed up on the dike, and sat down; the little brother was playing about at the foot of the bank.
Suddenly the little brother called out, "Oh, what a funny little hole! It bubbles!"
"Hole? Where?" said Hans.
"Here in the bank," said the little brother; "water's in it."
"What!" said Hans, and he slid down as fast as he could to where his brother was playing.
There was the tiniest little hole in the bank. Just an air-hole. A drop of water bubbled slowly through.
"It is a hole in the dike!" cried Hans. "What shall we do?"
He looked all round; not a person or a house in sight. He looked at the hole; the little drops oozed steadily through; he knew that the water would soon break a great gap, because that tiny hole gave it a chance. The town was so far away--if they ran for help it would be too late; what should he do? Once more he looked; the hole was larger, now, and the water was trickling.
Suddenly a thought came to Hans. He stuck his little forefinger right into the hole, where it fitted tight; and he said to his little brother, "Run, Dieting! Go to the town and tell the men there's a hole in the dike. Tell them I will keep it stopped till they get here."
The little brother knew by Hans' face that something very serious was the matter, and he started for the town, as fast as his legs could run. Hans, kneeling with his finger in the hole, watched him grow smaller and smaller as he got farther away.
Soon he was as small as a chicken; then he was only a speck; then he was out of sight. Hans was alone, his finger tight in the bank.
He could hear the water, slap, slap, slap, on the stones; and deep