Plymouth State University - Conning Tower Yearbook (Plymouth, NH)

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Freshman Liberal Arts First Row: M. Crowley, A. Chase, A. Farnum, P. Colpitts, G. Russell, C. Taylor, Treasurer, R. Licb, R. Morrissey, J. Noyes, D. Bump, H. Angers, E. Hutchins. Second Row: R. McGIonc, R. Laramie, E. Grass, F. Howland, D. Sahmarsh, A. Cushing, E. Small, R. Paine, C. Randall, J. Doyle, C. Houle. Third Row: R. West, H. Sanborn, A. Card, G. Bryenton, J. Hearn, G. Tatham, D. Forsyth, P. Brown, R. Hudson, E. Robinson, E. Lasak, J. Spencer. Fourth Row: D. Holbrook, R. Parkman, P. Rutherford, T. Houle, M. Mcdzcla, P. Bruton, N. Kardos, A. Hayes, R. Blaney.

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Faithful Forever Whenever the people in the small town of Occanbrook saw Daniel Matson trudging along, they would nudge each other and whisper, “There goes Crazy Danny.” The children would tag behind him and often would make fun of him by imitating his shambling steps. But Danny never turned on these children. Indeed, he seemed unaware of their presence and of their shrill taunts. He lived by himself in a small shack on the edge of a tiny graveyard, a short distance from the ocean. Danny had not always been known as “Crazy Danny.” In earlier years he had been a bright young man with a promising future as a musician. He had married a sweet girl and had become the father of a son, who was also called Danny. When little Danny was two years old, his mother died. Big Danny was inconsolable. He gave up his work and with his small son went to live in the little shack which he had built on the edge of the graveyard. Strangely enough, they seemed to be happy. At night, when the boy was asleep, Danny would take long walks by himself, through the woods and along the beach. He loved to sit on a rock and watch the waves break high on the shore. For two years big Danny and little Danny lived by themselves. Then one day little Danny became sick. Big Danny tried to nurse him back to health, but all his efforts failed, and the little boy died. With a breaking heart, Danny laid fiis little son to rest beside his mother. Bewildered and crushed by this new loss, he became more of a recluse than ever. Years passed, and Danny became an old man. He had one passion, his violin. At night, people passing on the lonely road could hear his wistful music. If it were sweet and low, they would say, “Danny is lonely tonight.” But if it were wild and eerie, they would say, “Danny is grieving tonight. God have pity on him.” Danny would go out to the little burying ground, and sitting beside the graves of his loved ones, he would play his violin, play with all his heart. Or, many times at night, he would ramble along the shore, playing all the while. Those times people would shudder as they heard the breaking of the waves with Danny’s weird music rising above it. Danny lived by fishing. Every day he would trudge through the village, a string of fish in his hand. Timid children hid in their mother’s skirts at the sight of “Crazy Danny” as he was now called, but the more fearless boys would run behind him and try to steal his catch. One windy day, when Danny was fishing from the steep rocks, he heard a faint sound. Looking down into the swirling water, he saw a little dog caught between two rocks and unable to free itself. Without a thought for his own safety, Danny sprang from his rock and dropped into the dark, icy water. Reaching the little dog, he grasped it and tried to climb up onto the rock. He slipped and fell back. Once more he tried. This time he managed to get safely on the rock. Into the village he carried the little dog, which by the frantic waving of a little tail, was endeavoring to express its thanks to the old man. A young boy came running over to Danny. “That’s my dog,” he cried. Danny put the dog into the boy’s arms. “I pulled him out of the sea , he said. “I was afraid he would drown.” The boy looked at Danny with new respect in his eyes. “Gee, thanks,” he breathed. Then he turned and ran to his friends. The poor old man went feebly home, too weak to even change his wet clothing. That night the townspeople heard the music again, full of passion and longing. After a weary while it ceased. The next day, attracted by the barks of a little dog, several of the villagers found Danny lying between the graves of his loved ones, his violin in his arms. Danny had played his last. With tearful eyes and repentant hearts, the villagers laid “Crazy Danny” to rest in the little graveyard. No more now is his wild music heard by the villagers, but Danny’s slumber is soothed by the sighing of the wind and the moaning of the ocean. And daily his grave is visited and watched over by a little dog. A little dog that is trying in his small way to show his gratitude to an old man who died alone and without friends, and who was thought to be crazy by everyone except the little dog to whom it did not matter. Phyllis Bruton