Path: vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!logbridge.uoregon.edu!zdc!super.zippo.com!lotsanews.com!news1.rcsntx.swbell.net!usenet
From: "S.P." 
Newsgroups: news.admin.net-abuse.misc,news.admin.net-abuse.usenet,news.admin.net-abuse.email,news.admin.censorship
Subject: "The TOUCH OF TINY TIM." Being a Touching Story About Tiny Tim Skirvin.
Date: Fri, 15 Aug 1997 23:00:30 -0500
Organization: Southwestern Bell Internet Services
Lines: 51
Message-ID: <33F525DE.3CE3@pgh.org>
NNTP-Posting-Host: ppp-207-193-25-29.austtx.swbell.net
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.02 (Win95; I)
Xref: vixen.cso.uiuc.edu news.admin.net-abuse.misc:228881 news.admin.net-abuse.usenet:69676 news.admin.net-abuse.email:88651 news.admin.censorship:49143

His Mother's Last Lesson

                                       -or-

                               The Touch of Tiny Tim.



	'Will you please teach me my verse, mamma, and then kiss me, and bid me
good night?` said Tiny Tim Skirvin, as he opened the door and peeped
cautiously into the chamber of his sick mother: 'I am very sleepy, but
no one has heard me say my prayers.`

	Mrs. S. was very ill-indeed, her attendants believed her to be dying. 
She sat propped up with her pillows, and struggling for breath; her lips
were white; her eyes were growing dull and glazed.  She was a widow, and
Tiny Tim was her only-her darling child.  Every night he had been in the
habit of coming into her room and sitting in her lap, or kneeling by her
side whilst she repeated passages from God's holy word, or related to
him stories of the wise and good men spoken of in its pages.

	'Hush!` said a lady who was watching beside her couch.  'Your dear
mother is too ill to hear you to-night.`

	As she said this, she came forward, and laid her hand gently upon his
arm as if she would lead him from the room.  Tiny Tim began to sob as if
his heart would break.	
	'I cannot go to bed without saying my prayers; indeed I cannot.`

	The ear of the dying mother caught the sound.  Although she had been
nearly insensible to everything transpiring around her; the sob of her
darling roused her stupor, and turning to a friend she desired her to
bring her little son and lay him on her bosom.  Her request was granted,
and the child's rosy cheek and golden hair nestled beside the pale cold
face of his dying mother.

	"Tiny Tim, my son, my darling child,` said the dying woman, 'repeat
this verse after me and never, never forget it: ''When my father and
mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.`` `

	The child repeated it two or three times distinctly, and said his
little prayer. Then kissed the cold and almost rigid features before
him, and went quietly to his little couch.

	The next morning he sought, as usual, his mother, but he found her
stiff and cold.

	This was her last lesson.  Tiny Tim has not remembered it-he probably
never will. He has grown to be a man-a bad man, and now occupies a post
of dishonor and profit in Illinois. I never could look upon him without
thinking about the faith so beautifully exhibited by his dying mother.