Shadowing Practice: A Tree Grows In Brooklyn! Ch1 Prt 1 - Learn English Speaking with Video
Les maken...
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A tree grows in Brooklyn.
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Chapter one, part one.
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Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York, especially in the summer of 1912.
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Somber as a word was better, but it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
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Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound but you couldn't fit those words into Brooklyn.
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Serene was the only word for it, especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer.
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Late in the afternoon, the sun slanted down into the mossy yard belonging to Francie Nolan's house
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and warmed the worn wooden fence.
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Looking at the shafted sun, Francie had that same fine feeling that came when she recalled the poem they had recited in school.
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This is the forest primeval.
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The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like druids of eld.
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The one tree in Francie's yard was neither pine nor hemlock.
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It had pointed leaves which grew along green switches
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which radiated from the bow and made a tree which looked like a lot of open green umbrellas.
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Some people called it the tree of heaven.
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No matter where its seed fell, it made a tree which struggled to reach the sky.
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It grew and boarded up lots and out of neglected rubbish heaps.
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It was the only tree that grew out of cement.
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It grew lushly, but only in the tenement districts.
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You took a walk on a Sunday afternoon and came into a nice neighborhood, very refined.
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You saw a small one of these trees through the iron grate leading into someone's yard, and you knew that soon that section of Brooklyn would get to be a tenement district.
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The tree knew.
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It came there first.
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Afterwards, poor foreigners seeped in and the quiet old brownstone houses were hacked up into flats.
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Feather beds were pushed out onto windowsills to air and the tree of heaven flourished.
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That was the kind of tree it was.
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It liked poor people.
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That was the kind of tree in Francie's yard.
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Its umbrellas curled over around and under her third floor fire escape.
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An 11 -year -old girl sitting on this fire escape couldn't imagine that she was living in a tree.
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That's what Francie imagined every Saturday afternoon in summer.
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Oh, what a wonderful day was Saturday in Brooklyn.
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Oh, how wonderful anywhere.
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People were paid on Saturday, and it was a holiday without the rigidness of Sunday.
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People had money to go out and buy things.
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They ate well for once, got drunk, had dates, made love, and stayed up until all hours singing and playing music,
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fighting and dancing because the moral was their own free day.
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They could sleep late, until late Mass anyhow.
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On Sunday, most people crowded into the 11 o 'clock Mass, while some people, a few, went to 6 o 'clock early Mass.
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They were given credit for this, but they deserved none, for they were the ones who had stayed out
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so late that it was morning when they got home.
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So they went to this early Mass, got it over with, and went home and slept all day with a free conscience.
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For Francie, Saturday started with the trip to the junkie.
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She and her brother Neely, like other Brooklyn kids, collected rags, paper, metal, rubber, and other junk,
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and hoarded it in locked cellar bins or in boxes hidden under the bed.
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All week, Francie walked home slowly from school with her eyes in the gutter looking for tinfoil from cigarette packages
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or chewing gum wrappers.
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This was melted in the lid of a jar.
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The junkie wouldn't take an unmelted ball of foil
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because too many kids put iron washers in the middle to make them weigh heavier.
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Sometimes Neely found a seltzer bottle.
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Francie helped him break the top off and melt it down for lead.
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The junkie wouldn't buy a complete top because he'd get in trouble with the soda water people.
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A seltzer bottle top was fine.
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Melted.
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It was worth a nickel.
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Francie and Neely went down into the cellar each evening and emptied the dumbwaiter shelves of the day's accumulated trash.
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They owned this privilege because Francie's mother was the janitress.
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They looted the shelves for paper, rags, and deposit bottles.
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Paper wasn't worth much.
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They only got a penny for ten pounds.
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Rags brought two cents a pound and ironed four.
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Copper was good, 10 cents a pound.
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Sometimes Francie came across a bonanza, the bottom of a discarded wash boiler.
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She got it off with a can opener, folded it, pounded it, folded it, and pounded it again.
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Soon after nine o 'clock of a Saturday morning, kids began spraying out of the side streets to Manhattan Avenue,
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the main thoroughfare they made their slow way up the avenue to shoal street Some carried their junk in their arms.
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Others had wagons made out of wooden soapboxes with solid wooden wheels.
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A few pushed loaded baby buggies.
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Francie and Neely put all their junk into a burlap bag and each grabbed an end and dragged it along the street.
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Up Manhattan Avenue, past Mauer, 10 Ike, Stag to Shoal Street.
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Beautiful names for ugly streets.
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From each side street, hordes of little ragamuffins emerged to swell the main tide.
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On the way to Kearney's, they met other kids coming back empty -handed.
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They had sold their junk and already squandered the pennies.
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Now swaggering back, they jeered at other kids.
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Ragpicker, ragpicker.
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Francie's face burned at the name.
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No comfort knowing that the taunters were ragpickers too.
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No matter that her brother would straggle back empty -handed with his gang and taunt latecomers the same way.
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Francie felt ashamed.
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carney plied his junk business in a tumbledown stable turning the corner francie saw
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that both doors were hooked back hospitably and she imagined
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that the large bland dial of the swinging scale blinked a
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welcome she saw carney with his rusty hair rusty mustache
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and rusty eyes presiding at the scale carney liked girls better
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than boys he would give a girl an extra penny if she did not shrink when he pinched her cheek.
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Because of the possibility of this bonus, Neely stepped aside and let Francie drag the bag into the stable.
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Carney jumped forward, dumped the contents of the bag on the floor, and took a preliminary pinch out of her cheek.
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While he piled the stuff on the scale, Francie blinked, adjusting her eyes to the darkness and was aware of the mossy air and the odor of wetted rags.
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Kearney slewed his eyes at the dial and spoke two words, his offer.
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Francie knew that no dickering was permitted.
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She nodded yes, and Kearney flipped the junk off and made her wait while he piled the paper in one corner, threw the rags in another, and sorted out the medals.
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Only then did he reach down in his pants pocket, haul up an old leather pouch tied with a wax string
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and cowed out old green pennies
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that looked like junk too as she whispered thank you carney fixed a rusty junk look on her
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and pinched her cheek hard she stood her ground he smiled
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and added an extra penny then his manner changed and he became loud and brisk
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come on he hollered to the next one in line a boy get the lead out he timed the laugh
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and I don't mean the junk.
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The children laughed dutifully.
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The laughter sounded like the bleeding of lost little lambs, but Kearney seemed satisfied.
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Francie went out to report to her brother.
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He gave me 16 cents and a pension penny.
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That's your penny, he said, according to an old agreement.
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She put the penny in her dress pocket and turned the rest of the money over to him.
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Neely was 10, a year younger than Francie, but he was the boy.
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He handled the money.
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He divided the pennies carefully.
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Eight cents for the bank.
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That was the rule.
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Half of any money they got from anywhere went into the tin can bank.
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That was nailed to the floor in the darkest corner of the closet.
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And four cents for you and four cents for me.
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Francie knotted the bank money in her handkerchief she looked at her own five pennies realizing happily
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that they could be changed into a whole nickel.
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Neely rolled up the burlap bag tucked it under his arm
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and pushed his way into cheap Charlie's with Francie right behind him.
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Cheap Charlie's was the penny candy store next to Carnie's which catered to the junk trade.
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At the end of a Saturday its cash box was filled with greenish pennies.
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But by an unwritten law, it was a boy's store, so Francie did not go all the way in.
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She stood in the doorway.
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The boys from eight to fourteen years of age looked alike in straggling knickerbockers and broken pink caps.
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They stood around, hands in pockets and thin shoulders hunched forward tensely.
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They would grow up looking like that, standing the same way in other hangouts.
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The only difference would be the cigarettes, seemingly permanently fastened between their lips, rising and falling in accent as they spoke.
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Now the boys churned about nervously, their thin faces turning from Charlie to each other and back to Charlie again.
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Francie noticed that some had already had their summer hair cut, hair cropped so short that there were nicks in the scalp where the clippers had bitten too deeply.
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These fortunates had their caps crammed into their pockets or pushed back on their head.
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The unshorn ones, whose hair curled gently and still babyishly at the nape of their neck, were ashamed, and wore theirs pulled so far down over their ears
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that there was something girlish about them in spite of their jerky profanity.
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Cheap Charlie was not cheap, and his name wasn't Charlie.
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He had taken that name, and it said so on the store awning, and Francie believed it.
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Charlie gave you a pick for a penny.
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A board of 50 numbered hooks and a prize hanging from each hook hung behind the counter.
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There were a few fine prizes, roller skates, a catcher's mitt, a doll with real hair, and so on.
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The other hooks held blotters, pencils, and other penny articles.
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Francie watched as Neely bought a pick.
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He removed the dirty card from the ragged envelope.
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26 hopefully francie looked at the board he had drawn a penny pen wiper prize
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or candy charlie asked him candy what do you think it
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was always the same francie had never heard of anyone winning
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above a penny prize indeed the skate wheels were rusted
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and the doll's hair had dust filmed as those these things
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had waited a long time like little boy blues toy dog and tin soldier
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someday francie resolved when she had 50 cents she would take all the picks
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and win everything on the board she figured
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that would be a good business deal skates mitt and doll
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and all the other things for 50 cents why the skates alone were worth four times
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that much neely would have to come along that great day
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because girls seldom patronize charlie's true there were a few girls there that Saturday, bold, brash ones, too developed for their age,
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girls who talked loud and horse -played around with the boys, girls whom the neighbors prophesied would come to no good.
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Francie went across the street to Gimpy's candy store.
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Gimpy was lame.
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He was a gentle man, kind to little children, or so everyone thought until that sunny afternoon
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when he inveigled a little girl into his dismal back room.
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Francie debated whether she should sacrifice one of her pennies for a gimpy special, the prize bag.
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Maudie Donovan, her once -in -a -while girlfriend, was about to make a purchase.
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Francie pushed her way in until she was standing behind Maudie.
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She pretended that she was spending the penny.
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She held her breath as Maudie, after much speculation, pointed dramatically at a bulging bag in the showcase.
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Francie would have picked a smaller bag.
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She looked over her friend's shoulder, saw her take out a few pieces of stale candy, an examiner prize, a coarse cambric handkerchief.
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Once Francie had gotten a small bottle of strong scent.
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She debated again whether to spend a penny on a prize bag.
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It was nice to be surprised even if he couldn't eat the candy
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but she reasoned she had been surprised by being with Maudie when she made her purchase and that was almost as good.
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Francie walked up Manhattan Avenue reading aloud the fine -sounding names of the streets she passed shoals meserole montrose
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and then johnson avenue
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these two last avenues were where the italians had settled the
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district called jewtown started at seagull street took in moore and mckibben and went past broadway francie headed for broadway
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and what was on broadway in williamsburg brooklyn nothing only the finest nickel and dime store in all the world.
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It was big and glittering and had everything in the world in it, or so it seemed to an 11 -year -old girl.
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Francie had a nickel.
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Francie had power.
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She could buy practically anything in that store.
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It was the only place in the world where that could be.
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Arriving at the store, she walked up and down the aisles, handling any object her fancy favored.
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What a wonderful feeling to pick something up, hold it for a moment, feel its contour, run her hand over its surface and replace it carefully.
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Her nickel gave her this privilege.
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If a floor walker asked whether she intended buying anything, she could say yes, buy it and show him a thing or two.
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Money was a wonderful thing, she decided.
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After an orgy of touching things, she made her plan to purchase five cents worth of pink and white peppermint wafers.
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She walked back home down Graham Avenue, the ghetto street.
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She was excited by the filled push carts, each a little store in itself, the bargaining emotional juice and the peculiar smells of the neighborhood,
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baked stuffed fish and sour rye bread fresh from the oven, and something that smelled like honey boiling.
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She stared at the bearded men in their alpaca skull caps, in silkeling coats, and wondered what made their eyes so small and fierce.
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She looked into the tiny hole -in -the -wall shops, smelled the dress fabrics arranged in disorder on tables.
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She noticed the feather beds bellying out of windows, clothes of oriental bright colours drying on fire escapes, and the half -naked children playing in the gutters.
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A woman big with child sat patiently at the curb in a stiff wooden chair.
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She sat in the hot sunshine watching the life on the street and guarding within herself her own mystery of life.
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Francie remembered her surprise that time when Mama told her that Jesus was a Jew.
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Francie thought that he was a Catholic, but Mama knew.
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Mama said that the Jews never looked on Jesus as anything
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but a troublesome Yiddish boy who would not work at the carpentry trade, marry, settle down, and raise a family.
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And the Jews believed that their Messiah was yet to come, Mama said.
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Thinking of this, Francie stared at the pregnant Jewess.
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I guess that's why the Jews have so many babies, Francie thought.
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And why they sit so quiet, waiting.
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And why they aren't ashamed the way they are fat.
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Each one thinks that she might be making the real little Jesus.
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That's why they walk so proud when they're that way.
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Now the Irish women always look so ashamed.
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They know that they can never make a Jesus.
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It will just be another mick.
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When I grow up and know I'm going to have a baby, I will remember to walk proud and slow, even though I'm not a Jew.
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Exploring Life in 1912 Brooklyn: A Window into Francie's World
The video paints a vivid picture of a summer Saturday in Brooklyn, focusing on 11-year-old Francie Nolan. It’s a snapshot of daily life—junk-collecting trips, fire escape daydreams, and the "tree of heaven" that thrives in tenement districts. This scene isn’t just a story; it’s a rich resource for language learning, offering real, conversational phrases that capture the rhythm of early 20th-century American life.
Useful Chunks & Collocations to Add to Your Toolkit
- "seeped in" – Describes how people gradually moved into a neighborhood (e.g., "New families seeped in, changing the area’s feel").
- "free conscience" – A clear sense of not having done wrong (e.g., "She donated to charity, leaving her with a free conscience").
- "hoarded it in" – Stored something carefully (e.g., "He hoarded old letters in a wooden box").
- "slanted down" – Describes sunlight angling through (e.g., "Afternoon light slanted down through the window").
- "moral was their own free day" – A casual way to say it was a day without strict rules (e.g., "Weekends feel like our own free day").
Your Shadowing Challenge: Speak Like Francie’s Brooklyn
Ready to practice speaking and pronunciation? Try the shadowing technique: Play the video’s first 2 minutes (where Francie describes the tree and Saturday mornings). Pause after each sentence, then repeat it aloud—mimic the tone, speed, and pauses. Focus on phrases like "Oh, what a wonderful day was Saturday in Brooklyn" to capture the excitement. Do this 3 times. Notice how the speaker stresses "wonderful" and "Saturday"—that’s how emotion comes through! This exercise helps you sound more natural and builds confidence in real-world speaking practice. By the end, you’ll feel more connected to the language and ready to try longer sections.
Wat is de Shadowing-techniek?
Shadowing is een wetenschappelijk onderbouwde taalleermethode die oorspronkelijk is ontwikkeld voor professionele tolkentraining en gepopulariseerd door polyglot Dr. Alexander Arguelles. De methode is eenvoudig maar krachtig: je luistert naar native Engelse audio en herhaalt het onmiddellijk hardop — als een schaduw die de spreker volgt met slechts 1–2 seconden vertraging. In tegenstelling tot passief luisteren of grammaticadrills, dwingt shadowing je hersenen en mondspieren om echte spraakpatronen tegelijkertijd te verwerken en te reproduceren. Onderzoek toont aan dat het de uitspraaknauwkeurigheid, intonatie, ritme, verbonden spraak, luisterbegrip en spreekvaardigheid aanzienlijk verbetert — waardoor het een van de meest effectieve methoden is voor IELTS Speaking-voorbereiding en echte Engelse communicatie.