When the Frost is on the Punkin

Fall is hard to describe. Well, fall is hard to describe without using hackneyed descriptions of familiar images. But the primary job of the poet is to describe things—from the indescribable to the mundane—in fresh, concrete terms that bypass the head and go straight to the heart. In his poem “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” James Whitcomb Riley does just that. 

While many folks have already shifted into full-on Christmas mode, leaving behind all things fall, it’s still a fact that November is a time of harvest, early frosts, and leaf raking. Lots and lots of leaf raking. So in celebration of the changing season, I’d like to present you with this delightful little poem. I hope it reminds you of the cozy aspects of fall as you rake your endless piles of leaves. 

Stuff About the Poet

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Indiana in 1849. He published over 50 volumes of poetry, and some of his best-known and most well-loved poems are written for children. One thing you’ll notice right off the bat is his use of dialect. His children’s poems are written to model children’s speech, and many of his adult poems use the dialect of rural Indiana. 

This was sort of his trademark. He became popular for his mastery of the rural speech patterns when he went on tour reading his poems (!) with an author named Bill Nye (!!!). And while it’s clear that he loved nature and fall, it is unclear whether he had to spend much time raking. That almost certainly would have tainted his opinion.

Why I Like the Poem

The poem I wanted to share with you today is a prime example of the old Indiana dialect. In fact, it may take a minute for you to warm up to it, just like when you read Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Huckleberry Finn. Personally, I’m not a huge fan of written accents, but I’ll forgive Riley because the overall poem is great. What I really love is the imagery. To me, it evokes the feelings of fall in the country.

I wasn’t raised on a big farm, but I would consider it a quasi-farm at least. We lived on fifteen acres off a dirt road, and our yard was surrounded by corn fields and poplar trees on every side. My mom grew a gigantic garden every year and spent weeks harvesting and preserving the fruits (and vegetables) of her labors. We had goats and chickens, ducks and rabbits, cats and birds. We even tried to cut and store our own hay one year. That wasn’t much fun. But we didn’t have any deciduous trees, so at least we didn’t have to rake. 

Reading Is Better Than Raking

So when I see Riley’s descriptions of “The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,/And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn,” I can picture just what he means. His description is so concrete that it makes me smile. Even if you feel a bit standoffish about his first stanza, press on. Finish it. Enjoy the poem in all its rural splendor because afterward you’ll probably have to go back out and rake. In that case, read the poem twice. 

Happy fall, friends!

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, 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!

Sources: 
Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/james-whitcomb-riley
Poem Text: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44956/when-the-frost-is-on-the-punkin