Cidertime In Gungawamp

It’s cidertime in Gungawamp,

     The orchard leaves are falling;

Across the brown and barren field

     A lone “Bob White” is calling.

Huge piles of apples, many hued,

     Around the mill are lying;

And many boys, with eager eyes,

     Along the walls are “spying”.

Beneath the weather-beaten roof

     The cogs are slowly turning;

The old horse with its measured tread

     His “board and keep” is earning.

Down from the brown and hard-pressed cheese

     The apple juice is dripping;

And from the tub bedecked with foam

     A farmer lad is sipping.

The dinner horn sounds forth its note,

     The farm-hands homeward turning;

The farmer follows in their wake,

     No hidden foe discerning.

A dozen boys leap o’er the wall

     With empty stomachs knawing;

A dozen straws poked in the tub

     A dozen youngsters drawing!

It’s cidertime in Gungawamp –

     To-day I feel a yearning;

I’d like to be there at the mill

     And watch the cogs go turning.

I’d like to take a long rye straw,

     And by the tub go kneeling,

And suck until I’d satisfied

     This autumn cider feeling.

Oct. 6, 1902