Saturday, October 13, 2012

Hallylooyer! It's Harvest Time

It is truly a glorious day in Pennsylvania. From my loft window I'm looking down on our frost covered cars, frosty white grass, and a frosted cornfield. But it won't last long. Mr. Sunshine is up and doing his thing, kissing the earth so all things glisten. Patches of steam rise, fog hovers above the browned out cornstalks. And the frost melts away, making for a fabulous day.

Why am I trying to wax eloquent when that's already been done by James Whitcomb Riley, back at the turn of the past century.  Here are the first and last verses of his frosty pumpkin poem. I love the hallelujah of the rooster, and Riley's farmer's wanting to play host to angels. Eloquent I tell you.

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,
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.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
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-
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.
Riley's poem speaks of early morning calls, clucks, and carrying on of farm stock. I, on the other hand, woke to bam, bams of rifles popping off geese and small game, as well as big booms -- muzzle loaders trying for deer. With each bang I hope the critter gets away, at the same time hoping hunters get meat for their family. These are sounds of harvest.
Less gruesome though, a massive cornpicker rumbles through our field, and tractors clatter back and forth, up and down our driveway pulling first empty then full wagons of chopped corn home to their own barns. Sounds of harvest. Farmers reaping what they've sown. 
They reap what they sow, as do we all. 
Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9
And sometimes: Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. Psalm 126:5 Hallelujah!
Hallelujah says the rooster, and me,
 on this glorious fall day 
with frost on pumpkins, and fields and wild game ready for harvest.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Oops, my dear husband pointed out..."they're shelling that corn, honey, not chopping it." I'll bet my wonderful farmer's daughter friend, Deenie, will have noticed that too!