If There Was Only One Tree Like

People Always Think That Happiness Is A Faraway Thing," Thought Francie, "something Complicated And Hard To Get. Yet, What Little Things Can Make It Up; A Place Of Shelter When It Rains - A Cup Of Strong Hot Coffee When You're Blue; For A Man, A Cigarette For Contentment; A Book To Read When You're Alone - Just To Be With Someone You Love. Those Things Make Happiness.

The World Was Hers For The Reading.

There's A Tree That Grows In Brooklyn. Some People Call It The Tree Of Heaven. No Matter Where Its Seed Falls, It Makes A Tree Which Struggles To Reach The Sky. It Grows In Boarded-up Lots And Out Of Neglected Rubbish Heaps. It Grows Up Out Of Cellar Gratings. It Is The Only Tree That Grows Out Of Cement. It Grows Lushly . . . Survives Without Sun, Water, And Seemingly Without Earth. It Would Be Considered Beautiful Except That There Are Too Many Of It.

It's A Beautiful Religion And I Wish I Understood It More. No, I Don't Want To Understand It All. It's Beautiful Because It's Always A Mystery. Sometimes I Say I Don't Believe In God And Jesus And Mary. I'm A Bad Catholic Because I Miss Mass Once In A While And I Grumble When, At Confession, I Get A Heavy Penance For Something I Couldn't Help Doing. But Good Or Bad, I Am A Catholic And I'll Never Be Anything Else. Of Course, I Didn't Ask To Be Born Catholic, No More Than I Asked To Be Born American. But I'm Glad It Turned Out That I'm Both These Things.

I'll Not Punish You For Having An Imagination.