Autumn on the Crick

“The frost is on the punkin, an’ the fodder’s in the shock;

Young Jack is skulkin’ closer to give us all a knock.

The leaves are fallin’, fallin’ frum off the swayin’ trees,

They’s hints o’ winter comin’ on ev’ry northern breeze.

But while the woods grow barren, an’ gardens turn to black

The fishin’ on ol’ “Lizzard” is certain comin’ back;

The pickerel are active an’ juicy, fat an’ thick,

So, altogether, Autumn is welcome on the crick.

I hate to see the medders all growin’ dry an’ brown

An' see the trees a-shakin’ an’ leaves come tumblin’ down.

I hate to see the swallers a-leavin’ uv the air,

An’ see the hillsides barren an’ dismal ev’rywhere.

But still it makes me happy to see the water black

An' know thet decent fishin’ fur pickerel is back.

An' so I say. “come autumn, you can’t come none too quick,

Becuz you bring good fishin’ fur us on “Lizzard Crick”.

Oct. 11, ‘10