When the Frost is on the Pankin

When the Frost is on the Pankin.
89.3

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 guineas, and the cluckin’
of the hens,
And the rooster hallyloopers as he tiptoes on the
fence:
Oh, it’s then’s 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 front le on the punkin and the fodder’s
In the shock.

They’s somethin’ kind o’ harty like about the at-
mosfere,
When the hent 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’
-fall is here of the bear;
But the alr’s my appetizin’, and the landscape
through the huze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn
days
is a pictur’ that a painter has the colorin’ to mock-
When the front 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 na
the morn:
The stubble in the furries-kind o’ lonesomelike.
but still
A-preachin sermons to us of the barns they
growed to fall:
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the
shed,
The horses in their stalls below the clover over-
hend!
Oh, it pots my heart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a
clock.
When the frost is, on the punkin and the fodder’s
In the shock.
Then your struien ali is getthered, and the ines &
feller heri
Is poured Arvind the cellar Boot in red and yeller heape
And your elder makin’s over, and your wimmen
in through
With their mither and apple butter and they’s
I don’t know how to tell it-but of stew & thiog
could be
As the angels waitin’ Inardin’ and they’d call
around on me-
I’d want to contnodate ’em all the whole fo-turing
nock
When the front is on the punkin and the fodder’s
In the shock.