WHEN THE FROST 
 
 THE PUNKIls 
 
 2/04 4ND OTHER POEMS 
 
 W5 
 1911 
 
 '*>
 
 PS 
 
 W.5 
 
 ONDON BOOK CO. 
 224 W. B; 
 aendale
 

 
 WHEN THE FROST IS 
 ON THE PUNKIN 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMKS WIIITCOMB RILKY 
 
 WITH PICTURES BY 
 
 WILL VAWTER 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 Til . 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, 
 
 BY 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 PHISS or 
 
 BRAUNWORTH 4 CO. 
 
 BO3KBINDIR8 AND PRINTtRk 
 
 BROOKLYN. N. V.
 
 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'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, bare-headed, and goes out to feed 
 
 the stock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the 
 
 shock. 
 
 7
 
 WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PI' N KIN 
 
 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 huzzin' 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 bosses 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! 
 
 8
 
 WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN 
 
 Then your apples all is getherd, 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 1
 
 WET-WEATHER TALK 
 
 IT hain't no use to grumble and complane ; 
 It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. 
 When God sorts out the weather and sends rain ; 
 W'y, rain's my choice. 
 
 Men ginerly, to all intents 
 
 Although they're apt to grumble some 
 Puts most theyr trust in Providence, 
 And takes things as they come 
 That is, the commonality 
 Of men that's lived as long as me 
 Has watched the world enugh to learn 
 They're not the boss of this concern. 
 10

 
 WET-WEATHER TALK 
 
 With some, of course, it's different 
 
 I've saw young men that knowed it all, 
 And didn't like the way things went 
 On this terrestchul ball ; 
 
 But all the same, the rain, some way, 
 Rained jest as hard on picnic day; 
 Er, when they railly wanted it, 
 It mayby wouldn't rain a bitl 
 
 In this existunce, dry and wet 
 
 Will overtake the best of men- 
 Some little ski ft o' clouds'll shet 
 The sun off now and then. 
 
 And mayby, whilse you're wundern who 
 You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, 
 And ivani it out'll pop the sun, 
 And you'll be glad you hain't got none ! 
 
 It aggervates the farmers, too 
 
 They's too much wet, er too much sun, 
 Er work, er wait in' round to do 
 Before the plowin' 's done: 
 
 And mayby, like as not, the wheat, 
 Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, 
 
 12
 
 WET-WEATHER TALK 
 
 Will ketch the storm and jest about 
 The time the corn's a-jintin' out. 
 
 These-here cy-clones a-foolin' round 
 
 And back'ard crops! and wind and rain! 
 And yit the corn that's wallerd down 
 May elbow up again ! 
 
 They hain't no sense, as I can see, 
 Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be 
 A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents, 
 And lockin' horns with Providence! 
 
 It hain't no use to grumble and complane ; 
 It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. 
 When God sorts out the weather and sends rain. 
 W'y, rain's my choice.
 
 THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED 
 FARMER 
 
 THE summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' 
 trees ; 
 
 And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees, 
 And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the 
 
 sly, 
 
 Tel they stutter in theyr btizzin' and stagger as they fly. 
 The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his 
 
 wings 
 
 And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings ; 
 And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, 
 And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
 
 THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED FARMER 
 
 You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the 
 
 plow 
 Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not 
 
 a-carin' how ; 
 So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the 
 
 wing 
 
 But theyr peactabler in pot-pies than any other thing : 
 And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, 
 She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest ; 
 And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' 
 
 right, 
 Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite ! 
 
 They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, 
 And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, 
 And the woods is all the gretner, and the grass is greener 
 
 still ; 
 
 It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. 
 Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded 
 
 out, 
 
 And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt ; 
 But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, 
 Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I betl 
 
 16
 
 THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER 
 
 Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry 
 Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky ? 
 Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way, 
 Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day? 
 Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'? Does he walk, er does 
 
 he run? 
 Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've 
 
 allus done? 
 Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er 
 
 voice ? 
 Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? 
 
 Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot; 
 The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot. 
 Oh ! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, 
 And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away ! 
 Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, 
 Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; 
 Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, 
 And the dew ic full of heavenly love that drips fer me 
 and you.
 
 THE CLOVER 
 
 O OME sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, 
 
 ^ And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime 
 
 throws 
 
 In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays 
 Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days ; 
 But what is the lily and all of the rest 
 Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest 
 That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew 
 Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew? 
 
 18
 
 THE CLOVER 
 
 I never set eyes on a clover-field now, 
 
 Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, 
 
 But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane 
 
 As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again ; 
 
 And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, 
 
 Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam 
 
 With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love 
 
 Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above. 
 
 And so I love clover it seems like a part 
 Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart ; 
 And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow 
 And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now ; 
 And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die, 
 To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, 
 And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom 
 While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.
 
 SEPTEMBER DARK 
 
 I 
 
 THE air falls chill ; 
 The whippoorwill 
 Pipes lonesomely behind the hill 
 The dusk grows dense. 
 The silence tense ; 
 And lo, the katydids commence. 
 
 20
 
 SEPTEMBER DARK 
 
 II 
 
 Through shadowy rifts 
 
 Of woodland, lifts 
 
 The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, 
 
 While left and right 
 
 The fireflies' light 
 
 Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night. 
 
 Ill 
 
 O Cloudland, gray 
 
 And level, lay 
 
 Thy mists across the face of Day ! 
 
 At foot and head, 
 
 Above the dead, 
 
 O Dews, weep on uncomforted ! 
 
 21
 
 WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE 
 MAY 
 
 WHEN country roads begin to thaw 
 In mottled spots of damp and dust, 
 And fences by the margin draw 
 
 Along the frosty crust 
 Their graphic silhouettes, I say, 
 The Spring is coming round this way. 
 
 22
 
 WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY 
 
 When morning-time is bright with sun 
 And keen with wind, and both confuse 
 
 The dancing, glancing eyes of one 
 
 With tears that ooze and ooze 
 And nose-tips weep as well as they, 
 The Spring is coming round this way. 
 
 When suddenly some shadow-bird . 
 Goes wavering beneath the gaze, 
 
 And through the hedge the moan is heard 
 
 Of kine that fain would graze 
 In grasses new, I smile and say, 
 The Spring is coming round this way. 
 
 When knotted horse-tails are untied, 
 And teamsters whistle here and there, 
 
 And clumsy mitts are laid aside 
 
 And choppers' hands are bare, 
 And chips are thick where children play, 
 The Spring is coming round this way. 
 
 When through the twigs the farmer tramps, 
 
 And troughs are chunked beneath the trees, 
 And fragrant hints of sugar-camps 
 Astray in every breeze, 
 23
 
 WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY 
 
 When early March seems middle May, 
 The Spring is coming round this way. 
 
 When coughs are changed to laughs, and when 
 Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, 
 
 And all our blood thaws out again 
 
 In streams of ecstasy, 
 And poets wreak their roundelay, 
 The Spring is coming round this way. 
 
 24
 
 GRIGGSBY'S STATION 
 
 PAP'S got his pattent-right, and rich as all creation ; 
 But where's the peace and comfort that we all had 
 
 before ? 
 
 Le's go a-visitin* back to Griggsby's Station 
 Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! 
 
 The likes of us a-livin* here ! It's jest a mortal pity 
 To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the 
 
 stairs, 
 And the pump right in the kitchen ! And the city ! city ! 
 
 city ! 
 And nothin* but the city all around us ever'wheres ! 
 
 25
 
 GRIGGSBY'S STATION 
 
 Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, 
 And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! 
 
 And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, 
 And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and 
 see! 
 
 Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station 
 Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, 
 
 And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation 
 Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! 
 
 I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin', 
 A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday 
 
 through ; 
 And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and 
 
 pilin' 
 
 Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do ! 
 
 26
 
 GRIGGSBY'S STATION 
 
 I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin' ; 
 And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired 
 
 hand, 
 And joke her *bout the widower she come purt* nigh 
 
 a-takin', 
 
 Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his 
 land. 
 
 Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station 
 Back where they's nothin* aggervatin' any more, 
 
 Shet away safe in the woods around the old location- 
 Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! 
 
 I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin'. 
 And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and 
 
 gone, 
 And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's 
 
 growin', 
 And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putther mournin* 
 
 OIL 
 
 28
 
 GRIGGSBY'S STATION 
 
 And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty, 
 Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and hurried 
 for 
 
 His own sake and Katy's, and I want to cry with Katy 
 As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War. 
 
 What's in all this grand life and high situation, 
 
 And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door ? 
 
 Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station 
 Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore !