The kettle had been singing for five minutes and he turned the wick of the oil lamp up a little to give him light to make tea.

The kettle sang cheerfully over the spirit lamp, and she seemed to concentrate her attention upon that pleasant sound.

Behind her on the porcelain stove a kettle sang an antiphon to itself.

The kettle sang, and began to boil at last, while he poured more cool water over the coil from time to time.

The kettle sang on the fire, and the smoke rose in the moonlight and floated away in the clear air.

The kettle sang quite quickly and meanwhile the stove, never entirely allowed to go out in the winter, had coughed into life.

The kettle on the stove sang to itself and the sun was sinking in the west.

The electric kettle sang and she poured the boiling water into the drip pot.

A kettle sang upon a spirit-stove, and there were tea things upon a tray on the table.

The kettle sings, the firelight dances.