Saturday, November 21, 2009

A Wee Bit of Literature (pronounced as in the Old World)

Sometimes I get in a poetry mood. Those days, strange little musty books from the library get stacked on the back of the toilet, on the bedside table, here and there. Sometimes it´s old Spanish, sometimes Wordsworth, Kipling, or Milton. Anyways I discovered one fascinating piece this week and rediscovered my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE fall poem. I´m afraid that this will only highlight my strange and eclectic preferences. Oh, well. I yam what I yam.


The first, I´ll just stick an excerpt in here for Julia (Nathan said you´d appreciate this, Juwah ;o) Anyways, it just goes to show not all parenting hundreds of years ago was worthy of imitation. And the end is the tailor does indeed come, and well, you know... And no, I haven´t resorted to this tale for Alex ;o)



THE STORY OF LITTLE SUCK-A-THUMB

From the German of Heinrich Hoffmann
One day, mamma said: "Conrad dear,
I must go out and leave you here.
But mind now, Conrad, what I say,
Don´t suck your thumb while I´m away.

The great tall tailor always comes
To little boys that suck their thumbs;
And ere they dream what he´s about,
He takes his great sharp scissors out
And cuts their thumbs clean off, - and then,
You know, they never grow again...

Now that you´re all grossed out by my macabre finding, here´s my FAVORITE FALL POEM. It seems I memorized a bit of this in junior high. Love the language of "thisun."

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 the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, 5
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— 10
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms 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— 15
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; 20
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 25
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— 30
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.

2 comments:

Sonja said...

Lovely post. Made me smile and was comfort to my poetry loving heart. =)

Juwah said...

What? Does Nathan think I haven't matured beyond twisted literature? Good grief, a girl writes one story about burning people alive and she never lives it down. :) Ok, honestly, I did laugh at the thumb poem. How terrible and yet how amusing....Ok, so maturity doesn't fix everything. :)