Postcard History

When the Frost is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley

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!

The Pumpkin Patch
by Charles J. Mitchell

Pretty thing, why don’t you ask,
Your favorite ghost to the pumpkin patch?
I’ll make you laugh
And scratch your back
As we run through rows
At the pumpkin patch.

Take a second, try something bold,
And kiss me warm in the October cold.
We’ll sell our souls
For secrets untold
As we chase black cats
Under a sky of gold.

I’m so cute, why don’t you see,
That the one to ask is little old me?
I’ll serve you treats
On a mountain of leaves
As we escape to the woods
Of a cool autumn eve.

Like the leaves that fall from your favorite branch,
My cold weather lover, I am yours to catch.
We’ll watch stars pass
And sleep in the grass
As we fall in love
At the pumpkin patch.

The Pumpkin Patch Poem
by Rhonda Baker

The garden is fading, it’s work is nearly done
Vegetables sparse, except for the orange globes that bask in the sun
It’s been a good year for pumpkins, they’ve grown quite large and round
Some deep orange, others mixed with green, are scattered on the ground

Now images of designs jump into my head
Happy jack-o-lanterns, or goblins, with eyes of crimson red
Maybe pumpkins make you think of pumpkin rice or pumpkin pie
Right now they are just beautiful… as the autumn days pass by

Jack-O’-Lantern
by John B. Tabb

“JACK-O’-LANTERN, Jack-o’-Lantern,
Tell me where you hide by day?”
“In the cradle where the vapours
Dream the sunlit hours away.”
“Jack-o’-Lantern, Jack-o’-Lantern,
Who rekindles you at night?”
“Any firefly in the meadow
Lends a Jack-o’-Lantern light.”

Pumpkin Is Queen
by May C. Hanks

The bards may sing of the great Corn King,
Who marshals in every valley,
His hosts we see, like the sands of the sea,
From hill-top and plain they rally.

But our muse will rhyme for the Pumpkin Vine,
As long as the pen is able,
For plainly ’tis seen the Pumpkin is Queen
Of the ranch and the dinner table.

Tradition tells when they rang the bells
Of joy at the Nation’s freedom,
They paid devoir to the Queen of the hour,
The beautiful golden pumpkin.

It spreads its broad leaves like the great palm trees,
That wave on the isles of the ocean,
Their ciliate sheen and beautiful green,
Are the joy and the pride of a nation.

O, a thing sublime is the Pumpkin vine!
When it bringeth its bloom in the summer,
It proudly lifts up its broad lily cup,
A chalice of regal splendor.

‘Tis seen in its prime in the harvest time,
On the south hill-side in autumn,
A sphere of bright gold, its riches untold,
For the queen of the ranch is the Pumpkin.

Thanksgiving Day would be a side-play
Minus the golden Pumpkin;
No feast is complete, if they have not to eat,
A circle of yellow Pumpkin.

Oh! the Pumpkin pie will ever out-vie,
Johnny-cake, pone, or corn dodger,
You don’t need to chew, it melts like the dew,
When the sun shines bright on the clover.