When the Frost is on the Punkin – by James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kiyook and 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 thens 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 somethin’ kinda hardy-like about the atmosphere,
When the heat o’ summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here.
O’ course we miss the flowers and the blossoms 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 mornin’ of the early autumn days,
Is a picture that no painter has the colorin’s to mock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty, rustle of the tossles of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries – kinda lonesome-like, but still,
A-preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The straw stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in thur stalls below; the clover overhead!
O it sets my heart a-tickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

Then the apples is all gethered, and the ones a feller keeps,
Is poured around the cellar floor in red and yeller heeps;
And yer cider-makin’s over, and yer wimmern-folks is through
With thur mince and apple butter, and thur souse and sausage too.
I don’t know how to tell it, but ef sich a thing could be
As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and they call around on me –
I’d want to ‘commodate ‘em – all the whole endurin’ flock –
When the frost is on the punkin, and the fodder’s in the shock.

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