Apples

Russets brown an’ golden

     Hangin’ on the bough;

Nights are growin’ frosty,

     Time tur pick ‘em now.

Autumn winds are sighin’,

     Leaves are turnin’ brown;

Barrels are all ready,

     Shake the apples down!

Greenin’s picked and sorted,

     Baldwins packed away;

Small ones gone tur cider

     For a later day.

Pippins gone fur dryin’,

     Russets in the bin;

Winter’s drawin’ nigher,

     Roll the barrels is!

Nights are long an’ chilly,

     Fires are burnin’ bright;

Fill the pan with apples,

     Red an’ brown an’ white.

Set the corns a-poppin’,

     Neighbors in to call;

That is when the apples

     Taste the best of all!

c. Sept. 29, 1901