There is a piece of music of amazing eccentricity and extravagance, yclept “By Heck,” by Henri. It is what is known as a “Fox Trot,” and, as recorded for the gramophone, is played by the Metropolitan Band. We were sufficiently mischievous one morning to arrange that it commence its erratic riot at an open window immediately the word “_Achtung!_” from the _Feldwebel_ announced the arrival of the Commandant on parade. The scheme worked beyond wildest imaginings. One blow from the hammer upon the old coulter, and we tumbled out--and fell in. Simultaneously with the second stroke the door of the Commandant’s room opened, and he emerged, for all the world after the fashion of the little male figure which used to issue from the old-fashioned weather-house when the day promised fine, or foul, I forget which. It was certainly to be foul this morning. [Illustration: CARICATURE OF THE CAMP COMMANDANT. By a Rumanian officer.] “_Achtung!_” We came to the salute, and simultaneously there came a burst of mirthful music from the window. The effect on the Commandant was electrical. He shook his fist at the open window, and in two or three seconds had as many convulsed sentries tearing up the stairs to stop the ribald strains. Meanwhile, with thumping of timpani, drum-tap, cat-call, cock-crow, whistle, and motor-horn, the gramophone ground out its litany, until at last it was pulled up with a jerk. The Commandant had the instrument commandeered and sequestered in the tower, but later, yielding to the plausibilities of Lieut. D., he returned it. “I think I like theatre better in the morning,” was the new interpreter’s comment. The mere sight of our somewhat careless parade seemed sometimes sufficient to throw the Commandant into a frenzy. One morning a Lieutenant was caught smoking by the old man, who swung his arms furiously, and passed sentence of three days’ confinement in the tower. To relieve the tedium the prisoner must have taken a flute with him, for towards evening melancholy notes floated from the barred window, the air being “The Close of a Perfect Day!” “HIS EXCELLENCY WISHES” On a certain day in August, the result doubtless of our continual complaint as to conditions in the _Lager_, His Excellency General Waldhausen, Inspector of Prisoner of War Camps, paid us a visit. Rather a soldierly type this old General, with gruffness and kindliness apparently continually contending for the mastery. He shook hands with the Colonel and some of the senior officers, and asked the name of each of the others--to what purpose I cannot conceive, as most of these names could convey nothing to him. “His Excellency wishes that you are to gather round!” Thus the interpreter. We gathered round very intimately, something to His Excellency’s dismay, who had not anticipated such an encircling movement.