Rensselaer Republican, Volume 26, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 April 1894 — HIS FAVORITE ODOR. [ARTICLE]

HIS FAVORITE ODOR.

Story of “Finlgan’s Wake*’ Newlj Told. Timothy Finigan, commonly called “Tim,” was an Irish gentleman of eccentricities; living on rue Walker. Hi< brogue was clean cut “melojtis,” and be followed the genteel occupation of hod-carrier. Though an odd fellow in many respects he didn’t belong to the order; nor was he a mason, although he was accustomed to 'tend one. He had often been urged to join a temperance society, but he preferred, he said, to take his drinks openly. Drink was his bane, however, It was a sort of heredity with him, several of his wife’s relatives and a neighbor or two having been carried off with it. Every morning before repairing to his place of business-on top of a ladder—he used to take a drop, little thinking it would finally result in a drop to much, as it did when he dropped'from the ladder. His skull was severly dislocated and he was picked up for dead. His friends carried him home, and preparations were made for celebrating his demise characteristic of his impetuous though warm hearted countrymen, and satisfactory to the corpse. Although enjoying that sleep from which there is said to be no “waking” everything that affection could suggest was prepared to wake Mr. Finigan. The friends of the deceased being informed of his promotion to another and better world, gathered in great numbers. Mrs. Finigan, though plunged into a wild abyss of grief, had the presence of mind to order on the collation, consisting chiefly of pipes and tobacco and the exhilarating punch. Biddy O’Brien, a wash-tub artist, struck with the fine appearance of the late Mr. Finigan, began to weep bitterly, and said that Timothy, consider-* ed as a corpse, lay over any dead man that lives, and she was ready to bet money on it. Then Judy Magee, moved by jealousy, requested Biddy to “hould yer gob,” which resulted in a discussion alike disgraceful to all parties. Missiles of all kinds were employed in iti__A table leg prostrated Mickey Mulroony, and a bQttle of pure malt whisky, intended for sickness only, which he in turn hurled at his assailant, landed on the bed and scattered its contents over poor Tim. The effect on the remains was magical. The nostrils were seen to twitch ns they inhaled the familiar odor, their the eyes opened and Timothy raised up in bed. He comprehended the! situation at a glance, and springing to the floor he seized a convenient shillalah, and laying about with it right and left he shouted: “Bad luck to yer sowls, d’ye think I’m dead?” Then the entire party united in the chorus he led: "Whack, hurrah, blood and oundst ye sowls ye. With the flure your trotters shake; Isn’t ft the thruth I’ve tould ye, Lots of fun at Finigan’s wake!”