Part 8

And a feller is reminded that once again it's Fall.

It is a glorious season, the crops most gathered in,

The wheat is in the granary and the oats are in the bin;

A feller jest feels splendid, right in harmony with all,

The old cider mill a-humin', 'gosh, I know it's Fall.

I hear the Bob White whistlin' down by the water mill,

While dressed in gorgeous colors is each valley, knoll and hill;

The cows they are a-lowing, as they slowly wander home,

And the hives are just a-bustin' with the honey in the comb.

Soon be time for huskin' parties, or an apple paring bee,

And the signs of peace and plenty are just splendid for to see;

The flowers they are drooping, soon there won't be none at all,

Old Jack Frost has nipped them, and by that I know it's Fall.

The muskrat has built himself a house down by the old mill pond,

The squirrels are laying up their store from the chestnut trees beyond;

While walking through the orchard I can hear the ripe fruit fall;

There's an air of quiet comfort that only comes with Fall.

The wind is cool and bracing, and it makes you feel first-rate,

And there's work to keep you going from early until late;

So you feel like giving praises unto Him who doeth all,

Nature heaps her blessings on you at this season, and it's Fall.

The nights are getting frosty and the fire feels pretty good,

I like to see the flames creep up among the burning wood;

Away across the hilltops I can hear the hoot owl call,

He is looking for his supper, I guess he knows its Fall.

And though the year is getting old and the trees will soon be bare,

There's a satisfactory feeling of enough and some to spare;

For there's still some poor and needy who for our help do call,