I've been thinking about this poem for a week now, ever since the change of seasons. I memorized it (well, tried!) back in 6th grade, and can still remember most of the 1st stanza. I enjoy the rhythmic writing and dialect that James Whitcomb Riley employs. Hope you do too!
HEN 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.
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- 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.
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- 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!
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- 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!
James Whitcomb Riley, from the Poetry Archive
My mom's apple butter
