The bird sings its name: two syllables with an equal stress on each.

But little depresses me more than sullen ranks of dingy firs, through which a deadened wind soughs vacantly, and where no bird sings.

A bird sings, a little group of impala stands motionless.

On moors and heaths, while skylarks sing high in the sky, another bird sings in the sky at a lower level.

And the bird, the bird sings.