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, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodders in the shock.

They`s something kindo` harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summers 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 pitcur 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 getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-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 sausage, 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` want to `commondate `em -- all the whole-indurin` flock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder`s in the shock!