How Jack Found That Beans May Go Back On A Chap

Without the slightest basis 
For hypochondriasis 
  A widow had forebodings 
  which a cloud around her flung, 
And with expression cynical 
For half the day a clinical 
  Thermometer she held 
  beneath her tongue. 
 
Whene'er she read the papers 
She suffered from the vapors, 
  At every tale of malady 
  or accident she'd groan; 
In every new and smart disease, 
From housemaid's knee to heart disease, 
  She recognized the symptoms 
  as her own! 
 
She had a yearning chronic 
To try each novel tonic, 
  Elixir, panacea, lotion, 
  opiate, and balm; 
And from a homeopathist 
Would change to an hydropathist, 
  And back again, 
  with stupefying calm! 
 
She was nervous, cataleptic, 
And anemic, and dyspeptic: 
  Though not convinced of apoplexy, 
  yet she had her fears. 
She dwelt with force fanatical 
Upon a twinge rheumatical, 
  And said she had a 
  buzzing in her ears! 
 
Now all of this bemoaning 
And this grumbling and this groaning 
  The mind of Jack, her son and heir, 
  unconscionably bored. 
His heart completely hardening, 
He gave his time to gardening, 
  For raising beans was 
  something he adored. 
 
Each hour in accents morbid 
This limp maternal bore bid 
  Her callous son affectionate 
  and lachrymose good-bys. 
She never granted Jack a day 
Without some long "Alackaday!" 
  Accompanied by 
  rolling of the eyes. 
 
But Jack, no panic showing, 
Just watched his beanstalk growing, 
  And twined with tender fingers 
  the tendrils up the pole. 
At all her words funereal 
He smiled a smile ethereal, 
  Or sighed an absent-minded 
  "Bless my soul!" 
 
That hollow-hearted creature 
Would never change a feature: 
  No tear bedimmed his eye, however 
  touching was her talk. 
She never fussed or flurried him, 
The only thing that worried him 
  Was when no bean-pods 
  grew upon the stalk! 
 
But then he wabbled loosely 
His head, and wept profusely, 
  And, taking out his handkerchief 
  to mop away his tears, 
 
Exclaimed: "It hasn't got any!" 
He found this blow to botany 
  Was sadder than were all 
  his mother's fears. 
 
The Moral is that gardeners pine 
Whene'er no pods adorn the vine. 
Of all sad words experience gleans 
The saddest are: "It might have beans." 
  (I did not make this up myself: 
  'Twas in a book upon my shelf. 
  It's witty, but I don't deny 
  It's rather Whittier than I!)