James Whitcomb Riley<\/p>\n
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
\nAnd you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
\nAnd the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
\nAnd the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
\nO, it’s then the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
\nWith the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
\nAs he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
\nWhen the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.<\/p>\n
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
\nWhen the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here\u2014
\nOf course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
\nAnd the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
\nBut the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
\nOf a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
\nIs a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock\u2014
\nWhen the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.<\/p>\n
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
\nAnd the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
\nThe stubble in the furries\u2014kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
\nA-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
\nThe strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
\nThe hosses in theyr stalls below\u2014the clover overhead!\u2014
\nO, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
\nWhen the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.<\/p>\n
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
\nIs poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
\nAnd your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
\nWith theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!…
\nI don’t know how to tell it\u2014but ef such a thing could be
\nAs the angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me\u2014
\nI’d want to ‘commodate ’em\u2014all the whole-indurin’ flock\u2014
\nWhen the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
James Whitcomb Riley 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 … Continue reading