When the Frost Is on the Punkin 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 guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it's then 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 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' sermons 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!