A Full Harvest.

    Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day
    Git down and roll and waller, don't you know,
        In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow,
    Seein' sich craps!    I'll undertake to say
    There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway
        Afore this season! - Folks is keerless tho',
        And too fergitful - 'caze we'd ort 'o show
    More thankfulness! - Jes' looky hyonder, hey? -
        And watch that little reaper wadin' thue
    That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground -
        Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two
    Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around
        The field - like it had nothin' else to do
        On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Wait For The Morning.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Old John Henry

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Beautiful City

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Gustatory Achievement

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer

The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow -
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing -
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's a...

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, bare-headed, 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 la...

James Whitcomb Riley

Romancin'

I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm
About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to know
When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like and low!

You git my idy, do you? - LITTLE tads, you understand -
Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a MAN. -
Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way!

I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate
Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate, -
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do! -

I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
Whare the haze...

James Whitcomb Riley

How John Quit The Farm.

    Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
    Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on -
    And then, I want to say to you, we needed he'p about,
    As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!

    A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found
    Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around! -
    The house was small - but plenty-big we found it from the day
    That John - our only livin' son - packed up and went way.

    You see, we tuck sich pride in John - his mother more 'n me -
    That's natchurul; but both of us was proud as proud could be;
    Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright,
    And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight.
...

James Whitcomb Riley

Kingry's Mill

On old Brandywine - about
Where White's Lots is now laid out,
And the old crick narries down
To the ditch that splits the town,
Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see
Where the old dam ust to be;
Shallor, long, dry trought o' grass
Where the old race ust to pass!

That's be'n forty years ago -
Forty years o' frost and snow -
Forty years o' shade and shine
Sence them boyhood-days o' mine!
All the old landmarks o' town.
Changed about, er rotted down!
Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still?
Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill?

Don't seem furder back, to me,
I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y,
Since us fellers, in bare feet
And straw hats, went through the wheat,
Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shoot
Fer that-air old ellum root
Jest above t...

James Whitcomb Riley

On The Banks O' Deer Crick.

    On the banks o' Deer Crick!    There's the place fer me! -
    Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be: -
    See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky,
    And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by;
    Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees -
    And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze!
    Well - I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea:
    On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!

    On the banks o' Deer Crick - mild er two from town -
    'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down, -
    Like to git up in there - 'mongst the sycamores -
    And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours:
    Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line,
    Where the fish...

James Whitcomb Riley