Frost on the punkin? #phenology

Earlier this week we had a morning or two of clear, sunny skies following cold nights. Frost didn't show up well (at all) on the "punkins" lining the driveway, but it was beautiful on the grasses in the fields, until the sun climbed high enough to warm the stems and melt the frost. We could use more days like those before the snow flies.

Autmn's frosted grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

Mice, crickets, and spiders have been creeping and crawling into the house looking for Winter shelter. We've manage to catch and release the crickets and spiders. The mice, and one mole / shrew, didn't fare as well.

While we were visiting Duluth yesterday, after an enjoyable lunch at Fitger's Brew House, we stopped by the Bookstore at Fitger's, where we picked up a book titled Natural Connections, exploring northwoods nature through science and your senses, written by Emily M. Stone and published by Cable Natural History Museum, where Ms. Stone is the Naturalist/Education Director. We started reading with the Fall section, since we're in the middle of that season. It's enjoyable, entertaining and educational. You should at least check it out [previous link] if you're interested in North Woods phenology.

North Country loon

Photo by J. Harrington

According to some phenology sources, we've reached the time of year when our North Country loons will be heading South for the Winter. Except for the howl of a wolf, we can think of no sound more evocative of the North Woods than the ululations of a loon.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

By 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’s the times 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.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

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