There’s a ringin’, singin’ gladness
in the tunes the blackbirds pipe
When they’re tellin’ from the pear-tree that the Bartletts’s nigh ter ripe;
There’s a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine,
And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin’ on the vine;
And the cornstalks, turnin’ yaller and a-crinklin’ up their leaves,
Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves;
And there’s beamin’, streamin’ brightness jest a-gildin’ all the place,
And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.
Now the crowd of cranb’r’y pickers, every
mornin’ as they pass,
Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass,
Till a roguish face a-smilin’ ’neath a bunnit or a hat,
Makes him stop and think of somethin’ that’s a good deal sweeter ’n that;
And the lightsome girlish figger trippin’, skippin’ down the lane,
Kills his mem’ry full of sunshine, but it’s sunshine mixed with rain,—
For, yer see, it sets him dreamin’ of Septembers that he knew
When he went a cranb’r’y pickin’ and a girl went with him, too.
Oh, the cool September mornin’s, why, their
freshness seems ter roll
Like a wave of life a-liftin’ up yer everlastin’ soul,
And the earth and all that’s on it seems a-bustin’ inter rhyme
So’s ter sing a big thanksgivin’ fer the comin’ harvest-time;
And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell ’em fur and near
That I hain’t got wealth nor beauty, but I’m mighty glad I’m here;
That I’m getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn,
But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.
* * * * *
[Illustration: boy looking at a turkey]
Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!
Struttin’ round so big and proud.
Pretty quick I guess your beller
Won’t be goin’ quite so loud.
Say, I’d run and hide, I bet you,
And I’d leave off eatin’ some,
Else the choppin’-block’ll get you,—
Don’t you know November’s come?
Don’t you know that Grandma’s makin’
Loads of mince and pun’kin pies?
Don’t you smell those goodies cookin’?
Can’t you see ’em? Where’s your eyes?
Tell that rooster there that’s crowin’,
Cute folks now are keepin’ mum;
They don’t show how fat they ‘re growin’
When they know November’s come.
’Member when you tried ter lick me?
Yes, you did, and hurt me, too!
Thought’t was big ter chase and pick me,—
Well, I’ll soon be pickin’ you.
Oh, I know you ’re big and hearty,
So you needn’t strut and drum,—
Better make your will out, smarty,
’Cause, you know, November’s come.
“Gobble! gobble!” oh, no matter!
Pretty quick you’ll change your tune;
You’ll be dead and in a platter,
And I’ll gobble pretty soon.
‘F I was you I’d stop my puffin’,
And I’d look most awful glum;—
Hope they give you lots of stuffin’!
Ain’t you glad November’s come?