James Whitcomb Riley
  
  Riley Farm-Rhymes
  
    Published by Good Press, 2019
  
  
goodpress@okpublishing.info
  
    EAN 4064066217228
  
 Table of Contents
  
    
  
THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES
WET-WEATHER TALK
THE BROOK-SONG
THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER
"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"
HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM
A CANARY AT THE FARM
WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY
GRIGGSBY'S STATION
KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE
SEPTEMBER DARK
THE CLOVER
OLD OCTOBER
OLD-FASHIONED ROSES
A COUNTRY PATHWAY
WORTERMELON TIME
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY
A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS
OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME
JUNE
THE TREE-TOAD
A SONG OF LONG AGO
OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM
ROMANCIN'
THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO
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 The orchard lands of Long Ago!
 O drowsy winds, awake, and blow
 The snowy blossoms back to me,
 And all the buds that used to be!
 Blow back along the grassy ways
 Of truant feet, and lift the haze
 Of happy summer from the trees
 That trail their tresses in the seas
 Of grain that float and overflow
 The orchard lands of Long Ago!
 Blow back the melody that slips
 In lazy laughter from the lips
 That marvel much if any kiss
 Is sweeter than the apple's is.
 Blow back the twitter of the birds—
 The lisp, the titter, and the words
 Of merriment that found the shine
 Of summer-time a glorious wine
 That drenched the leaves that loved it so,
 In orchard lands of Long Ago!
 O memory! alight and sing
 Where rosy-bellied pippins cling,
 And golden russets glint and gleam,
 As, in the old Arabian dream,
 The fruits of that enchanted tree
 The glad Aladdin robbed for me!
 And, drowsy winds, awake and fan
 My blood as when it overran
 A heart ripe as the apples grow
 In orchard lands of Long Ago!
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
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 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, bare-headed, 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 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!
WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES
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 In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
 And the sun comes out and STAYS,
 And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
 And you think of yer bare-foot days;
 When you ORT to work and you want to NOT,
 And you and yer wife agrees
 It's time to spade up the garden-lot,
 When the green gits back in the trees
 Well! work is the least o' MY idees
 When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
 When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
 Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in
 In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
 Old gait they bum roun' in;
 When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,
 And the crick's riz, and the breeze
 Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
 And the green gits back in the trees—
 I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
 The time when the green gits back in the trees!