Friday, October 17, 2008

When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and the gobble
of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys,
and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer
as he tiptoes on the fence;
O it's then's the times a feller
is a feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him
from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded,
and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's somthing kindo' harty-like
about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over
and the coolin' fall is here -
Of course we miss the flowers,
and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds
and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin';
and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning
of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter
has the colorin' to mock -
When the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel
of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves,
as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries -
kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us
of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder
and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below -
the clover overhead! -
O, it sets my hart a-clickin'
like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin
and the fodder's in the shock!
James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)