ULRICH'S OPPORTUNITY.

The Thirty Years' War was raging, and Europe was torn by bitter party strife. All over the country men ranged themselves under their respective leaders and fought grimly to the death.

At the time of this story, the little German town of Bamburg had remained loyal to the Emperor Ferdinand, and had in consequence been closely besieged for many weeks by the troops of the Elector of Saxony.

The flag still floated from the tower of the Town Hall, and a bold front was shown to the enemy; but in reality the inhabitants were in sore straits, when news reached them that if they could hold out one week longer help would come.

A council was summoned, and all who could bear arms were called to hear the glad news and to form fresh plans for the further defence of the town. Shrewd and cautious advice was sorely needed, and none was fitter to give it than stout old Karl Sneider, the keeper of the water-gate. So to-night he was not in his place in the little watch-tower that looked out over the broad river that flowed by the wall of the little town.

His watch was taken by Oscar Halbau, the clock-maker, who, although he was not a Bamburg man by birth, had lived there so long that the good people had come to regard him as one of themselves. Upstairs, in a quaint little room with sloping roofs and curious corners, lay Karl Sneider's crippled son Ulrich.

Usually bright and cheerful, to-night Ulrich was sadly depressed. To-day was his fifteenth birthday, and were not boys of fifteen allowed to take their places in the council? Caspar Shenk and Peter and Johann Hofman had run up to see him on their way to the Rathhaus, and had joined with him in begging his father to allow him to go, too, for with the help of his crutch and a friendly arm he could make his way to the Cathedral, and the Town Hall was not much further away.

'Nay, my son,' said his father firmly, 'a council is not like a service at church. Stay quietly here, and when I return I will tell thee all.'

He spoke cheerfully, but his heart ached to see the boy's disappointment, and when the other lads had gone he bent tenderly over him, saying, 'Only wait patiently, my son; thy turn will come, bringing the bit of work Providence means thee to do. There is work for every one if only we wait quietly for it.'

Long after he had gone, Ulrich thought over these words. They might be true, but it seemed as if there could never be work for him to do. His life seemed bounded by his couch and his chair by the window. Sometimes he went out, it was true, but at best it was a slow and painful business, and lately he had fancied the children laughed to themselves when he pa.s.sed.

He was roused from these sad thoughts by something coming sharply against the window. He listened, and the sound was repeated again.

Someone was throwing stones at the gla.s.s. Who could it be? and what could they want at that hour?

Stretching out his hand for his crutch, he moved softly across the room and peered out. There was just enough light to enable him to see a boat moored to the steps which ran up to the gate. He opened the window gently, and was about to speak when he heard the clockmaker's voice saying cautiously, 'Is that you, Captain?'

Ulrich knew then that the stranger had struck his window by mistake; clearly it was the guard-room window he had aimed at, and if that were so, why had the stranger chosen the very night that his father was away, and how did Oscar know him? As quickly as he could he put out his lamp and listened breathlessly. Oscar was speaking again.

'All is going well--better than I dared to hope. The fools think I am as loyal as themselves, and they have left me to guard the gate. The council will not be over till near midnight, and in half an hour the moon will be gone. I will open the gate when it is quite dark and admit your men, and the game will then be in our own hands.'

'You are a good fellow, Oscar, and shall be remembered,' replied the stranger. 'To-morrow, when the town is ours, your name shall be on every one's lips, and your pockets shall be filled with gold.'

He then turned back to his boat, and Ulrich leant back in his chair sick with horror. To think that here, in his father's house, sat a traitor, and that unless help came soon the town would be lost!

What could he do? It was useless for him to crawl downstairs and confront Oscar. He had only to carry him back to his room and lock the door to ensure safety. It was no less useless to cry for help, for a long row of warehouses separated the guard-room from any other dwelling.

Oh! if he had only been like other boys, how easily he could have stolen downstairs, and rushed to the Town Hall and given the alarm! It seemed absolutely impossible for him to do it as he was. He had never gone downstairs alone in his life; his father had always been there to help him; even if he managed to crawl down he could not take his crutch with him, and he could not walk without it. No, clearly it was impossible.

And yet, as the slow minutes dragged away, and as he thought of the shame it would be if the town were lost, he decided to make the attempt.

Slowly he crawled across the room and down the narrow, twisted staircase. He was trembling from head to foot, and his breath seemed to come in great gasps. What if Oscar heard him? His door was ajar, and the lamp threw a ray of light on the landing outside; but Oscar was deep in his plans, and did not notice the black shadow that moved slowly across the lamp-lit s.p.a.ce.

At last Ulrich was outside, and he breathed more freely in the open air.

If he had only had his crutch now, things might all have gone well, but how was he to crawl along the long Breite Stra.s.se, and round the corner and up the still longer Gast Stra.s.se to the Town Hall? His heart failed.

Still, he could only try his best. Perhaps he might meet some one....

Alas! all who were not at the council were safely in their houses, and there was no one to notice the bent figure slowly dragging itself along, or to hear the feeble knocks as he tried to reach the great bra.s.s knockers, which were just too high for him to reach.

At last he came to the Cathedral, where he sometimes attended service, but he had his father's strong arm to lean on then, while now he was alone and quite exhausted. He could never reach the Town Hall in time; but the church door was open, perhaps some one was inside who could take the message. But the church was closed; it was only the porch which was open.

With a sob of despair the boy entered and sank down on a low bench by the door. After all it was no use; he could go no further, and even now the traitor might be opening the gates.

As Ulrich raised his hand to wipe away the big tears that would fall, he struck something soft hanging above his head; in the darkness he felt it. It was a rope.

Instantly his strength came back with a rush. There was hope yet! Was not the bell of the Cathedral the loudest in the town, and was it not used as an alarm in cases of fire? He grasped the rope and pulled with all his might. It was hard work, but soon the sound came--crash! crash!

crash!

That would surely rouse the town. And so it did. Soon hasty footsteps were heard, and a watchman ran in, frantically waving his lantern.

'Where is it? What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!' but Ulrich seemed to have lost his tongue. It was not until several others had gathered round him that he managed to gasp out, 'The water-gate--quick! Oscar is letting in the soldiers!'

The words flew like wild-fire, and off the crowd rushed--men, boys, burgomaster, and watchmen, just in time to capture the traitor and to drive back the enemy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!'"]

So his father had been right after all, and Ulrich's bit of work had been ready for him, and nearer than he thought. And he did his best, and doing his best saved the town. For help did come, and Ulrich was thanked by the Emperor himself, who put him under the care of his own doctor.

The doctor, although he was not able quite to cure him, did him so much good that he was able in the course of time to walk without a crutch.

E. W. GRIERSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration:

Fig. 1.--Aphis, showing "Tracheae" (greatly magnified).

Fig. 2.--"Tracheal Filaments" of Aphis (greatly magnified).

Fig. 3.--"Spiracles" of Water Beetle (greatly magnified).

Fig. 4.--Section of Crayfish, showing gills (magnified).]

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VII.--HOW INSECTS BREATHE

Animal life cannot be sustained without breathing, though, strange as it may seem, many of the lower animals have no special breathing organs. By breathing, we mean supplying the body with the life-giving oxygen contained in the air. Animals which live in the water breathe by taking in the oxygen held in solution in the water.

In the simplest animals which live in water, the body is only a small 'blob' of jelly, so small that the oxygen pa.s.ses directly into the body.

The bodies of some worms are so delicate that the oxygen easily pa.s.ses through the outer layers and mixes with the blood within.

In more complicated animals this life-giving gas is conveyed all over the body by means of the blood, which is brought into contact with the water, or the air, by structures known as gills. In the crayfish, for example, the gills are placed above and rise from the bases of the legs, being saved from injury by a broad shield lying behind the head. (In fig. 4 this shield has been cut away so as to show the gills, marked G, which it really covers.) By means of the circulation of the blood, the crayfish breathes. This blood is carried to the gills and bathed by a constant stream of fresh water, which enters behind the covering and shield, and pa.s.ses forwards till it comes out on each side of the mouth.

The blood, thus refreshed by the oxygen in the water, is carried again all over the body, and in its course loses more and more oxygen, and becomes more and more charged with poisonous gases, which are got rid of on the return of the blood to the gills. The letter S in this figure marks the stump of the leg, which, for the sake of clearness, has been cut off.

In ourselves, the work of breathing, or of purifying the blood, is done by means of the lungs. The lungs are large, spongy organs in the chest, and are continually supplied with fresh air, which pa.s.ses in through the nose and mouth and down the wind-pipe, by what we call the act of breathing.

Insects take in oxygen in a way quite different from that of the crayfish or mankind. In some larval insects, which live in water, as in some worms, the body is so thin that no special breathing organs are necessary; others breathe by means of gills like those of the crayfish, but arranged differently--sometimes along each side, and sometimes at the tail end of the body. But in the ordinary adult insect the work of breathing is carried on by means of a system of tubes, known as 'tracheae,' which run all over the body. Into these tubes the air is drawn through a number of holes on the surface of the body, called 'spiracles,' or breathing pores. The tracheae or tubes are everywhere bathed by the blood, which is thus constantly 'aerated,' or kept fresh.

One very remarkable thing about these tubes is the way they are kept open. A h.o.r.n.y, spirally-twisted thread runs through them, and thus they are prevented from closing up by pressure, or by the bending of the body or limbs. In fig. 2, this thread is marked C. This plan of keeping open the pa.s.sage in a tube likely to be blocked by sudden bending, has been imitated by mankind, in making rubber gas tubing, for example. As a plain rubber tube is easily bent, the gas would be in constant danger of being cut off. To prevent this, Nature's patent is usually imitated, and a coil of wire is placed along the inside of the tube. Thus, a sharp bend, such as would instantly obstruct the pa.s.sage of the gas, is prevented.