In former days most parishes in the country possessed one or more ‘naturals,’ whose lives were embittered by the persecution of the children, though they might be kindly enough treated by the elders, whom they amused by the oddities of their ways and the quaintness of their expressions. Since the establishment of the Lunacy Board, however, they have been mostly drafted into asylums, much to the increase of the decency of the communities, though a little of the picturesqueness of village life has thereby been lost. One of these ‘fules’ was seen marching along quickly with a gun over his shoulder. Its owner knew it not to be loaded, but he called out, ‘Archie, where are you going wi’ the gun? You are no’ wantin’ to shoot yoursell?’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘I’m no’ jist gaun to shoot mysell, but I’m gaun to gie mysell a deevil o’ a fleg (fright).’ [Sidenote: AN ARRAN NATURAL] Many years ago a half-witted but pawky attendant, perhaps as much knave as fool, was a well-known figure at the old inn of Brodick, in Arran. He was employed in miscellaneous errands and simple bits of work about the inn or the farm, such as suited his capacity, and he was noted for having a specially pronounced love of brandy. One day he was seen by two visitors at the hotel, pushing a boat down the beach and getting the oars ready. They accosted him and asked where he was bound for. He answered that he was going across the bay to Corriegills for a bag or two of potatoes. Their request to be allowed to accompany him was all the more willingly complied with, inasmuch as they at once proposed that they should pull the oars if he would steer. Sandy had not much English, but he employed it to the best of his ability in the hope that it might be the means of gaining him some of his favourite liquor. Having crossed the bay, the boat was pulled towards the large granite boulder that forms so notable a landmark on that part of the shore. He directed the attention of his crew to it, and said: ‘D’ye see that muckle stane? Weel, maybe ye’ll no’ be believin’ me, but it’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye. If onybody wad be climmin’ to the tap o’ that stane and wad be roarin’ as loud as he likes, there’s naebody can hear him.’ ‘Nonsense; we don’t believe a word of it.’ ‘But I wad wager ye onythin’ ye like it’s true. I wad be wagerin’ ye a bottle o’ brandy, if ye like.’ ‘Very well, we’ll try. You jump ashore and get on the stone and roar.’ Sandy with great alacrity sprang out of the boat, and was speedily on the great grey boulder. He opened his mouth and swung his body, as if he were roaring with the strength of ten bulls of Bashan, until he grew purple in the face with his apparent efforts to make a noise. But though he stooped and gesticulated, he took care that never a sound should escape from him. ‘Wass you hearin’ me?’ he asked with a triumphant face when he had come down to the boat again. ‘You rascal, you never gave a sound.’