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German Dialect
Der Aerscht Daag Vum Harrebscht /
The First Day of Autumn
September 23, 1999
Ihr liewe Leit:
Heit iss net yuscht der Dreiunzwansichschde September; es iss aa der aerscht Daag vum Harrebscht. Wie ihr gude Leser wisst, hen die PD Dichder hunnerde vun Gedichde vun de Yaahres- zeide gschriwwe, un nadierlich sin viel devun vum Harresbscht. Do iss was der Ralph Funk (1889-1969) mol gschriwwe hot:
Im Harresbscht, do iss ken schennre Zeit---
Weescht net wie gut ich fiehl
Wann Daag alsnoch schee sin, un
Die Nachde bissel kiehl.
Wann Welschkann gschackt iss, Roi uff Roi,
Mit Karbse zwische drin,
Un wilde Drauwe henke schwer,
Wu aryets Schteeroi sin.
Wann Obschtbeem beige bis zum Grund
Mit Frucht, ya, allerlei;
Un Ebbelmiehl drickt Seider raus
Fer in der Lattwarg nei
Wann bissel Reif uff Wiss un Feld
Glannst in der Marrigesunn;
Un Bisch hen so viel Farrewe---wei,
‘S iss yuscht ken Zahl devun.
Wann Schmook vun Schannschtee darrich’s Daal
Schteight in die Heeh wie Duft;
Un der Geruch vum Holsfeier kummt
So siess uff Marrigeluft.
Iss des der Inschesummer?---well,
Deel saage woll es iss;
Fer’n scheeni Zeit vum Yaahr gheert aa
En Naame schee, gewiss.
Drum saag ich, ‘s iss nix in der Welt
Wie draus im Land zu sei
Im Harrebscht, un sehne all die Sach---
Es schtaart der Sinn wie Wei.
Weck vun der hesslich Zucht un Laerm,
Un weck vun Hass un Schpeit;
Ya, do iss Friede, Ruh,--- un do
Vergesst mer Blatz un Zeit.
Mer denkt an all der Seege wu
Der Herr in seinre Vorsicht
In vollem Moos, wu iwwerlaaft,
Zu seine Kinner schickt.
Awwer mit dem Harresbscht kummt aa der
Harrebscht Wind. Neegscht Woch lese mer ebbes
dodevun.
Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
Today is not just the 23rd of September; it is also the first day of Autumn. As you good readers know, the PG poets have written hundreds of poems about Autumn. Here is what Ralph Funk (1889-1969) once wrote:
In Fall, there is no nicer time---
You don’t know how good I feel
When days are still nice, and
The nights are a little cool.
When the corn is shocked, row upon row,
With pumpkins in between,
And wild grapes hang heavily
Wherever stonerows are.
When fruit trees bend to the ground
With fruit, yes, all kinds;
And apple mills press out cider
To put into the apple butter.
When a little frost on meadow and field
Gleams in the morning sun;
And woods have so many colors---why,
There’s no knowing how many of them.
When smoke from chimneys through the valley
Climbs up like vapor;
And the smell of wood fires comes
So sweetly on morning air.
Is that Indian Summer?--- well,
Some say indeed it is;
For a beautiful time of year there should be
A beautiful name, of course.
Therefore I say, there’s nothing in the world
Like being out in the country
In the Fall, and seeing all the things---
It stirs the mind like wine.
Away from the hateful noise and alarm,
And away with hate and spite;
Yes, here is peace, rest, --- and here
One forgets place and time.
One thinks of all the blessings that
The Lord in his care
In full measure, which overflows,
Sends to his children.
But with Autumn comes also the Fall wind.
Next week we will read about that.
Take care,
The Old Professor |
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