And did those feet in ancient times
Walk upon England’s mountains green,
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
   Gone forever were the family gatherings at the dinner table, and the long tradition as the three children took to the dishes—Rosely always washed, I dried, Howie put away—the washer leading us in song as we did so, nightly bestowing upon the neighbour proud renderings of Blake’s Jerusalem, and How much is that Puppy in the Window, and Men of Harlock, and Jamaican Farewell. Rosely sang superbly, I grumbled along beneath her, Howie did improvisations of variable quality. Now, the musical tradition had given way to the TV news, and none of us was ever to sing with such purpose and confidence again.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.
“How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.”
“I have, at least, a well-polished silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me,” said he.
Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are engaged by Sir Henry Baskerville to sort out the family curse. It seems a demonic hound has been chewing up the ancestors, and it has been recently seen hanging about. But Holmes, after some initial investigation, is content to leave a rather flattered Watson to watch out for the hound at Baskerville Hall while he disappears, supposedly back to London.
   Watson indeed encounters all manner of mysterious goings-on—strange people sneaking about everywhere, dire warnings from nice young ladies, the baying of the Hound at night and a mysterious figure watching from a distance. But of course he is at a loss to make any sense of any part of it.
   ... There, outlined as black as ebony on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you I have never seen anything so clearly in my life. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin, man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if we were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him...
Only Watson could have failed to guess who it was.
   For of course the mysterious figure turns out to be Holmes himself, who has been watching these activities by stealth. Now he swings into action, and Watson is even more baffled. A man is murdered, mistaken for Sir Henry, but who is the victim? But Holmes knows the victim was an escaped convict, whom the mysterious young lady has been harbouring. And now it’s time to set a trap for the hound, and the human killer that makes use of it.

“Phosphorus,” I said.“A cunning preparation of it,” said Holmes, sniffing the dead animal. “There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to receive him.”

   No, I’m not going to tell you how The Hound of the Baskervilles ends. If you don’t know or don’t remember, go and read it, now! Right away! Two fine (and many bad) movies have been made from it, one with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, who went on to make a series of them, and was in fact the first Hammer Film, and a later effort with Peter Cushing and Andre Morelli. Either is fine.