| 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 the time 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 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 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 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' sermuns 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 cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps; |
| And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through |
| With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr 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. |
Austen's punkin....
Samuel's punkin...
Daddy's punkin...

Mommy's punkin...


2 comments:
I've heard that poem before. Will have to share it with my boys!
Love the pumpkins!!
Bravo! Loved the poem!
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