No matter where its seed fell, it made a tree which struggled to reach the sky.
Some people called it the Tree of Heaven. It had pointed leaves which grew along green switches which radiated from the bough and made a tree which looked like a lot of opened green umbrellas. The one tree in Francie's yard was neither a pine nor a hemlock. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld. Looking at the shafted sun, Francie had that same fine feeling that came when she recalled the poem they recited in school. Late in the afternoon the sun slanted down into the mossy yard belonging to Francie Nolan's house, and warmed the worn wooden fence.
Serene was the only word for it especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer. Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn't fit those words into Brooklyn. But it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York.
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