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’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!

Source:

In 1877 an unrecognized poet James Whitcomb Riley received another letter of rejection from an editor. He decided to avenge. Riley took one of his poems and passed it as if it was a newly discovered work of Edgar Allan Poe. This poem was, of course, published and soon recognized as a masterpiece. The editors could not tell the poet, whom they had rejected, from Poe. And what about you? Can you tell Poe from Riley? Take this quiz to find out.

After each verse chose the poet. Hit the Submit button when done. The quiz will be graded and you will see the correct answers

I missed two on this test...he had me fooled!

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Labels: Hoildays, misc, Poetry

N Posted by Rain at 11/20/2007 10:16:00 AM

5 comments from:  Anonymous,  Anonymous,  Politically Homeless,  Zelmarq,  Kilroy_60,

Sunday, November 18, 2007

It's Back with a Vengeance

I am so looking forward to Menopause.

Labels: misc

N Posted by Rain at 11/18/2007 11:53:00 PM

1 comments from:  Anonymous,