"I never bet--ner never wrought Upon my feller man to bet-- And yit, at times, I've often thought Of my convictions with regret. "I bless the hoss from hoof to head-- From head to hoof, and tale to mane!-- I bless the hoss, as I have said, From head to hoof, and back again! "I love my God the first of all, Then Him that perished on the cross, And next, my wife,--and then I fall Down on my knees and love the hoss." Again I applauded, handing the old man still another of his poems, and the last received. "Ah!" said he, as his gentle eyes bent on the title; "this-- here's the cheerfullest one of 'em all. This is the one writ, as I wrote you about--on that glorious October morning two weeks ago--I thought your paper would print this-un, shore!" "Oh, it WILL print it," I said eagerly; "and it will print the other two as well! It will print ANYTHING that you may do us the honor to offer, and we'll reward you beside just as you may see fit to designate.-- But go on--go on! Read me the poem." The old man's eyes were glistening as he responded with the poem entitled "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 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!