the days are gettin' shorter, and
the summer birds are leaving,
the wind sighs in the tree tops,
as though all nature was grieving;
the leaves they drop in showers, there's a
blue haze over all,
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,
so we'll share with them our blessings and
be thankful that it's fall.
