Recalling these pictorial representations of the lean detective brings back happy memories, and makes the ancient Sherlockian murmur, in the words of Old English: "Great Days! Great Days!" Once more Holmes and Watson sit by the fire in the rooms of that patient landlady: Mrs. Hudson. Once more the dense yellow fog swirls around the window panes, until Holmes chafes at his enforced inactivity. Then Mrs. Hudson is heard toiling up the stairs; she taps on the door, to announce- what mysterious personage? The King of Bohemia, in his black mask? Mr. Jabez Wilson, with his red hair and his curious story? Brother Mycroft, puffing and wheezing, to say that the Prime Minister is quite agitated, and that Sherlock must come at once? Or some beautiful and distressed lady, to tell of an unexplained and terrible death at midnight? Perhaps this time they are really going to find out what in Heaven's name were the Singular Adventures of the Grice Paterson in the Island of Uffa! Anyhow, they will soon be in a hansom together; Watson with his old service revolver in his pocket, and the thrill of adventure in his heart. Great Days! Great Days!