Quote

The jelly - the jam and the marmalade, And the cherry-and quince-'preserves' she made! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare! And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to old Aunt Mary's! Ah!

James Whitcomb Riley

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James Whitcomb Riley
Age: 66 †
Born: 1849
Born: October 7
Died: 1916
Died: July 22
Poet
Writer
Greenfield
Indiana
Benjamin P. Johnson of Boone
Jay Whit
Uncle Sidney
James Withcomb Riley
Cooking
Spare
Pears
Sweet
Spares
Pickles
Food
Aunt
Cherry
Made
Culinary
Peaches
Quince
Things
Ems
Jelly
Marmalade
Mary
Cherries
Pear
Preserves
Jam
Cinnamon
Rare
Sour
Peach

More quotes by James Whitcomb Riley

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Oh, the world's a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, With its cares and bitter crosses, but a good world after all. And a good God must have made it-leastways, that is what I say, When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort of way.
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I love the horse from hoof to head. From head to hoof and tail to mane. I love the horse as I have said - From head to hoof and back again.
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The ripest peach is highest on the tree
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I don't know how to tell it--but ef such a thing could be As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me-- I'd want to 'ccommodate 'em--all the whole-in-durin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
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Tell you what I like the best - 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine, - some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else!
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Continuous, unflagging effort, persistence and determination will win. Let not the man be discouraged who has these.
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O, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, when the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
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One naked star has waded through The purple shallows of the night, And faltering as falls the dew It drips its misty light.
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O'er folded blooms On swirls of musk, The beetle booms adown the glooms And bumps along the dusk.
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Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strewberries melts On the vine.
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Who bides his time tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltiest tear And though he fares with slowest feet Joy runs to meet him drawing near.
James Whitcomb Riley