LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs
away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an'
sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her
board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you��������������
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Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:-
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' allher blood-an' kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, and' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black things a-standin' by her side,
an' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
�������������� �������������� Ef you
�������������� �������������� Don't
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�������������� �������������� Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away,-
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
'er ' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
James Whitcomb Riley
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 rossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries-kind' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermons 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 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-foks is through
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!
James Whitcomb Riley
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