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, bareheaded,
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 rossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves,
as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries-kind
a' 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 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 gethered,
and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor
in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over,
and your wimmern-foks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter,
and theyr 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'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. 1853B1916