No one says it better like Indiana's own 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, | |
| 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. |
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