Monthly Archives: October 2008

Frost on the Punkin’

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There have been several frost advisories over the last several weeks and so far none have come to pass here in the valley! It’s amazing how long you can stretch out your harvest into the autumn and I’m still picking tomatoes and strawberries and most of the blooming plants are still going strong. Rose, moonflower and morning glory to name a few.  Herbal Pagan’s column, The Garden Gate, this month gives some great advise on how you can stretch out your harvest. Check it out! The first frost always puts me in mind of this poem…

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

by: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

    • HEN 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!