A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

Once more the night was quiet. Francie grabbed her mother and Neeley. "All together now," she ordered. The three of them leaned out of the window and shouted; "Happy New Year, everybody!" An instant of silence, then out of the dark a thick Irish brogue shouted: "Happy New Year, youse Nolans!" "Now who could that be?" puzzled Katie. "Happy New Year, you dirty Irish mick!" Neeley screamed back. Mama clapped her hand over his mouth and pulled him away while Francie slammed the window down. All three of them were laughing hysterically. "Now you did it!" gasped Francie, laughing so hard that she cried. "He knows who we are and he'll come around here and fi ... fi … fight," gurgled Katie so weak from laughing that she had to hold on to the table. "Who ... who ... was it?" "Old man O'Brien. Last week he cursed me out of his yard, the dirty Irish. ..." "Hush!" said Mama. "You know that whatever you do when the new year starts, you'll do all year."