4.  It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then, carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, as if it said, “i won’t boil.  Nothing shall induce me!”

5.  But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good-humor, dusted her chubby little hands against each other, and sat down before the kettle laughing.  Meantime the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the little haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock, until one might have thought he stood stock still before the Moorish palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame.

6.  Now it was, observe, that the kettle began to spend the evening.  Now it was that the kettle, growing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in the throat, and to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn’t quite made up its mind yet to be good company.  Now it was that, after two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cozy and hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of.

7.  So plain, too!  Bless you, you might have understood it like a book; better than some books you and I could name, perhaps.  With its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud, which merrily and gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney corner, as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy of cheerfulness that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire; and the lid itself, the recently rebellious lid—­such is the influence of a bright example—­performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother.

8.  That this song of the kettle’s was a song of invitation and welcome to somebody out of doors, to somebody at that moment coming on towards the snug, small home and the crisp fire, there is no doubt whatever.  Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing before the hearth.

9.  “It’s a dark night,” sang the kettle, “and the rotten leaves are lying by the way, and above all is mist and darkness, and below all is mire and clay, and there’s only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I don’t know that it is one, for its nothing but a glare of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together set a brand upon the clouds, for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long, dull streak of black; and there’s hoar-frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice isn’t water, and the water isn’t free; and you couldn’t say that anything is what it ought to be; but he’s coming, coming, coming!—­”

10.  And here, if you like, the cricket did chime in with chirrup, chirrup, chirrup of such magnitude, by way of chorus, with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with the kettle (size, you couldn’t see it!)—­that if it had then and there burst itself, like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a natural and inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly labored.