When The Frost is on the Mailbox

Thanks to the wonderful world of postage stamps, I have been introduced to many interesting, and often times unknown to me, individuals. I particularly enjoy the poets. Poetry was a subject I had only a little exposure to in school. I read the works of just a few poets, knew of just a few poets. But as I got more involved with letter writing and stamp collecting, I would study the stamps and their subject matter. History, poetry, literature, art! It’s all there on a postage stamp. 🤩

James Whitcomb Riley is one such author and poet. He was born in October in 1849. Perfect! An October snailmail theme. Have you ever felt an affinity with people who share your birth month? As a labor and delivery nurse I especially enjoy working on my birthday. I love to meet all the new people with whom I have a special birthday connection! 🥳 I have a penpal who has an October birthday. I decided to tell her about her birthday buddy, James Whitcomb Riley. He is probably most known for his poems, “The Raggedy Man” and “Little Orphant Annie.” He was inspired by people and dialects from his own childhood and young adult life. 

One Riley poem in particular reminds me of October, “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!

Ahhh…fall. Thank you, James Whitcomb Riley. 

Share something you love with someone you love in a letter. 

XOXO,

Mrs. Murphy