Raised a "farm boy", this photo reminds me of one of my favorite poems. Here it is. James Whitcomb Riley. 1853–1916
10. "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 the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, 5 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— 10 Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms 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— 15 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; 20 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 gethered, and the ones a feller keeps 25 Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!... I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me— 30 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.
I had not read that poem before. It certainly is compliments your picture, or the other way around. For such light colouring in the corn husks, you have captured great detail. Mary
What a wonderful poem and the photo fits it perfectly. We had adelicious crop of corn last season and now all that's left of it is the dead husks as you show here but no more corn in our crop and it's all sitting in very deep mud for all the rain we've had here. I'm surprised to still see yellow cobs of corn in the dead husks here in this image. Looks dead but still alive with the corn. Unusual but good shot. Thanks for the lovely poem Del.
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{K:71879} 1/20/2006
