When the Frost Is On the Punkin'

When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder's in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck & gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock

And the clackin’ of the guineys, & 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, & goes to feed the stock,

When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over & the coolin’ fall is here

Course we miss the flowers, & the blossums on the trees,

The mumble of the hummin’ birds & buzzin’ of the bees;
The air’s so appetizin’ & the landscape thru the haze

Of a crisp & sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock

When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
The raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries, kinda’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

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

The hosses in theyr stalls below, the clover over-head

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, & the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red & yeller heaps;

Your cider-makin’s over, & your wimmen folk is through

With their mince & apple-butter, &
 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’, & they’d call around on me

I’d want to ’commodate ’em, all the whole-indurin’ flock

When frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock!

~ James Whitcomb Riley