The Caldwell Tribune

OLD FAVORITES

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 guineas, and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyers as he tip-toes on the fence;

Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

As he leaves the house bar-headed, and goes out to feed the stock;

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's somethin' kind o' 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 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 morning of the early 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' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The horses in they's stalls below—the clover overhead! O,

It sets my heart 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 gathered, 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 wimmen-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and they's souse and sausage, too!...

I don't know how to tell it—but ef such 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.

—James Whitcomb Riley.