When the Frost...

Sorry to have left you with barking sea lions in my previous post, but I've been otherwise occupied and didn't have a chance to shut them up until now ;)

First of all, Happy Birthday to Flighty ~ although it is still his birthday here, it is tomorrow where he lives! So this post is especially for Flighty, and includes a reference to his encounter with frost and his love of poetry.

Fun first ~

OK, party time is over ;)

Last week I visited a farm that was celebrating the Pumpkin harvest - before the frost.

The combination of seeing harvested pumpkins and Flighty's mention of frost descending on his allotment sent me to become reacquainted with the poem 'When the Frost is on the Punkin' by the American poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916). This poem was written in the Hoosier dialect of Indiana. I wondered about the origin of such a dialect, and found out about the connection to a Cumberland (Cumbria) dialect from those who arrived in Southern Indiana! I was especially intrigued because I emigrated from Cumberland, but not to Indiana. I love finding connections like that!

Quite a fascinating write up of the life and work of James Whitcomb Riley here.  

When the Frost is on the Punkin is a wonderful read for me, and I hope you enjoy it as well.

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 keep

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!

A view taken of the fields from my visit to the Pumpkin harvest farm: