Riley Farm-Rhymes

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 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, bare-headed, and goes out to feed
          the stock,
     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
          shock.

     They's something 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!

     Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
     Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;
     And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks
          is through
     With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and
          saussage, too!...
     I don't know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
     As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around
          on ME—
     I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin'
          flock—
     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
          shock!