Monday's Poetry: "When the Frost is on the Punkin"

 

by Pa Rock

Poetry Appreciator

The temperature in my part of the Ozarks dipped into the forties last night and this morning there was the definite feel of autumn in the air.   Ralph came bounding out of the chicken coop at daylight and proceeded to wake the neighborhood, but the other young roosters and guineas thought that it was a good morning to sleep in, and it took Ralph about an hour to get them down from the rafters and out into the yard.

It's been quite awhile since I have featured any of the classic midwestern works of Hoosier poet James Whitcomb Riley in this space, and I thought today might be a good time to correct that omission.  Mr. Riley, whose prolific poetry spanned the the late 19th and early 20th centuries, was a master of observation and dialect, and the following poem, "When the Frost is on the Punkin" showcases his abilities in those areas.

So let's travel back to rural Indiana in the late 1800's and experience some on-the-ground color commentary about the onset of autumn - a time when the frost was on the pumpkin and the fodder was in the shock.

"When the Frost is on the Punkin"

by James Whitcomb Riley

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 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 over-head!—

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-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!