It is October (or rather Octember as I used to tell my fifth graders) and it is time to pull out my very favorite poem. I love the homespun story James Whitcomb Riley spins of the events of fall in all of its splendor. Today in the N&O was a spread on why leaves turn colors. These ideas always created a wonderful environment for teaching writing.
But first a little about Riley. His poetry is written with a Hoosier dialect and most often reflects a sentimentality of its own. He had an interesting childhood and his subjects often were visitors that stayed at the home of his parents. His father had a reputation for taking poor and disadvantaged people into their home. Some of his poems are reflective of this. I am thinking of "Little Orphant Annie," and "The Raggedy Man." Riley's biography tells a story of a boy who apparently had learning difiiculties but a talent for writing.
When the Frost is on the Punkin
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 clackin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, its the time 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 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 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 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 wimmen-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 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.
~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
It is written that Riley was an alcoholic. I am not sure what impact that had on his writing but I have always had an appreciation for the colour and mental images or pictures that his words created as I read his writings. I especially like his last verse of this poem. Maybe partaking of the spirits helped him wonder about the spirits (angels) in that verse!
