First Frost

Hey gang, I try to post this each year and its that time again for some Hoosier Poet pride:

When the Frost is on the Punkin by James Whitcomb Riley (1853-1916)

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.

John T

Thanks for sharing, John.

A railroad buff, I am just old enough to remember the spit and polish NYC James Whitcomb Riley blast through Lawrenceburg junction and up the long and steep grade at Bonnell out of the Ohio River valley early in its daily treck across Indiana to Chicago and back to Cincinnati.

The JWR, powered by a magnificent NYC Hudson, undoubtably the finest steam passenger locomotive ever produced by mankind, easily capable of speeds in excess of 100 MPH, was often well north of 80 on its daily blast through the corn fields and pastures of Indiana.

The sounds and smells of steam are much missed.

Dean

One of the best ever! That don't make poets like him anymore. Thanks!

My favorite poem of all time is Riley's "An Old Sweetheart of Mine". I memorized it many years ago.

As a kid I really liked "Raggedy Man".

oops... double post

First Frost?????


A few miles north of you we have 100 foot visibility and several inches on the ground. We get much more and I will need to put a blade and chains on a tractor just so my wife can get in the drive.

I'll call your Riley and raise you some Frost...

[i:4b6c63db13]Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening[/i:4b6c63db13]

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.