Friday, October 21, 2011

Frost On The Pumpkin!

The old saying "frost on the pumpkin" came to me this morning as I stepped out into the chilly air. We haven't had frost yet, but it's coming. Tonight the forecast low is 34 degrees, and my dahlias are worried. I see the concern on their bright yellow, purple and red faces. At this time of year I always find myself torn - excited and happy about the crisp, fall air (and the silly dogs frolicking about in the cooler temperatures), but sad that the blooms are coming to an end. I don't want to say goodbye to my flowers!

Something made me google the saying "frost on the pumpkin" this morning, and surprise surprise. It's a poem! (you all knew that already, didn't you?) I got such a kick out of reading it - this poet who lived 100 years ago felt exactly as I do this morning! Happy October everyone, have a great weekend!



When the Frost is on the Punkin

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1849-1916)
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’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!

2 comments:

  1. You better bring your punkin inside. That is one chilly punkin
    Benny & Lily

    ReplyDelete
  2. You know how I feel about the cold! I love it! Even when my toes are falling off, but you best bring in the Dahlias!

    ReplyDelete