on and a whirring noise among the
weights and ropes below him had quite subsided that this terrified
Hay-maker became himself again. Nor was he startled without reason; for
these rattling, bony skeletons of clocks are very disconcerting in their
operation, and I wonder very much how any set of men, but most of all
how Dutchmen, can have had a liking to invent them. There is a popular
belief that Dutchmen love broad cases and much clothing for their own
lower selves; and they might know better than to leave their clocks so
very lank and unprotected, surely.

Now it was, you 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 its 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 cosy and
hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of.

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.

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. 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 it's 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 o