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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 Cluck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock And the clackin' of the guineas, 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 appetizen'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a picture' 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 straw stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The horses in their stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my hart a c-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 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! |