Jerry and Glenda this page is for you since you provided us with the pleasure of hearing James Whitcomb Riley reading some of his own poems on that old record on your restored victrola.

James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916), American poet, born in Greenfield, Indiana. He left school and joined a group of itinerant sign painters. Subsequently he acted in a patent-medicine show and worked for a newspaper.

From 1877 to 1885 he was a contributor of verse to the Indianapolis Journal under the pen name of Benj. F. Johnson. Some of the poems were collected in The Old Swimmin' Hole and 'Leven More Poems, a volume that achieved great popularity. Some of his best-known poems include "Little Orphant Annie," "The Raggedy Man," and "When the Frost Is on the Punkin." Riley's popularity derived mainly from his quaint use of Hoosier dialect, his cheerful and whimsical sense of humor, and his understanding of life in the rural Midwest. His other works include Rhymes of Childhood and Poems Here at Home.

 

 

When the Frost is on the Punkin

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 great 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 russell 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 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 (1853-1916)