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
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!