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)