How Jack Found That Beans May Go Back on a Chap

Without the slightest basisFor hypochondriasisA widow had forebodingswhich a cloud around her flung,And with expression cynicalFor half the day a clinicalThermometer she heldbeneath her tongue.

Whene’er she read the papersShe suffered from the vapors,At every tale of maladyor accident she’d groan;In every new and smart disease,From housemaid’s knee to heart disease,She recognized the symptomsas her own!

She had a yearning chronicTo try each novel tonic,Elixir, panacea, lotion,opiate, and balm;And from a homeopathistWould 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 fanaticalUpon a twinge rheumatical,And said she had abuzzing in her ears!

Now all of this bemoaningAnd this grumbling and this groaningThe mind of Jack, her son and heir,unconscionably bored.His heart completely hardening,He gave his time to gardening,For raising beans wassomething he adored.

Each hour in accents morbidThis limp maternal bore bidHer callous son affectionateand lachrymose good-bys.She never granted Jack a dayWithout some long “Alackaday!”Accompanied byrolling of the eyes.

But Jack, no panic showing,Just watched his beanstalk growing,And twined with tender fingersthe tendrils up the pole.At all her words funerealHe smiled a smile ethereal,Or sighed an absent-minded“Bless my soul!”

That hollow-hearted creatureWould never change a feature:No tear bedimmed his eye, howevertouching was her talk.She never fussed or flurried him,The only thing that worried himWas when no bean-podsgrew upon the stalk!

But then he wabbled looselyHis head, and wept profusely,And, taking out his handkerchiefto mop away his tears,Exclaimed: “It hasn’t got any!”He found this blow to botanyWas sadder than were allhis mother’s fears.

The Moral is that gardeners pineWhene’er no pods adorn the vine.Of all sad words experience gleansThe 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 denyIt’s rather Whittier than I!)