Autumn's Poet, part 1

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.

As the Americas developed as nations, they adopted and adapted arts from the ‘old countries’ until the US, Canada, and the Caribbean found their footings. Massachusetts operated as an intellectual axis while the City of New York grew into a cultural centre. To the surprise of many, movements arose from America’s heartland, in particular Indiana, which for half a century beginning in the latter 1800s, enjoyed a reputed Golden Age.

Landscape painting and a nexus of folk music, blues, and jazz rose through the tumult. With plain talk and an absence of affectations, a nation’s voice echoed quips, slang, and dialect of the fields, forests, farms, and soon enough, city streets. One could argue this laid the groundwork for pop culture.

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.

Prominent names in turn-of-the-century Hoosier literature include George Ade, Theodore Dreiser, Edward Eggleston, Frank McKinney Hubbard, George Barr McCutcheon, Meredith Nicholson, Gene Stratton Porter, the recently mentioned Booth Tarkington, Maurice Thompson, Lew Wallace, and for today’s article, James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier Poet, sometimes called the Children’s Poet.

If you’ve wondered where the phrase, “The goblins will get you if you don’t watch out,” that’s Riley. ‘The Old Swimming Hole’  (which as a kid I waded in and deeply cut a muscle in the arch of my foot) and ‘The Frost is on the Punkin’… That’s Riley again. He also composed the popular plantation parody folk song, ‘Short’n Bread’.

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!

Greenfield, Indiana is known for two American icons, Eli Lilly and … Riley. His home serves as a local museum. Although Riley became wealthy through his writing and touring, he lived a typically modest Midwestern life, although he battled alcoholism in mid-life. Surprisingly, extant recordings of him reading his poetry can be found, but unsurprisingly, sound quality is murky. At least the author’s cadence survives. Generation Z might appreciate the quirky spelling… or not.

Note: I can’t be certain I can respond to comments. Thanks to Hurricane Helene, our area has internet outages with no promise of repair dates, very minor compared to the deadly losses in other states. (To post this article, I purchased cellular data from Google Fi, slow, expensive, with spotty reliability.)

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 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’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Next time, little horror stories.