Dead Poets Society

under one arm and books under the other. Neil threw his towel over his
shoulder, patted Knox on the back, and headed toward his room. He tossed the
towel aside and noticed something on his desk that wasn’t there before.
    He hesitated
momentarily, then picked up an old, well-worn poetry anthology. He opened it
and, inside the cover, written in longhand, was the name “J. Keating.” Neil
read aloud the inscription under the signature. “Dead Poets.” He stretched out
on his bed and began skimming the thin yellowed pages of the old text. He read
for about an hour, vaguely aware of the hallway sounds quieting down, doors
slamming shut, and lights being turned off. There goes Dr. Hager; he’s still
up, Neil thought, hearing the resident dorm marshal shuffling up and down
the hallway, making sure all was quiet. He seemed to stop right in front of
Neil’s closed door.
    “Quiet,” Dr. Hager
said aloud, shaking his head. “Too quiet.”
    Several hours later,
certain that everyone was deep in sleep, the boys met at the gnarled old maple
tree. They had bundled themselves in winter hats, coats, and gloves, and a few
of them had brought flashlights to guide the way. “Gggrrr!” The sound of the school
hunting-dog startled them as he sniffed his way out of the bushes.
    “Nice doggie,” Pitts
said, stuffing some cookies in his mouth and leaving a pile of them on the
ground. “Let’s move it,” he hissed as the dog homed in on the food.
    “Good thinking, Pittsie,”
Neil said as the boys crossed the campus under the light of a sky glowing with
stars.
    “It’s cold,” Todd
complained as they escaped the open, windblown campus and moved through an
eerie pine forest, looking for the cave. Charlie ran ahead as the others
trudged slowly in the cold.
    “We’re almost
there,” Knox said as they reached the bank of the stream and began searching
for the cave that was supposed to exist somewhere among the tree roots and
brush.
    “Yaa! I’m a dead
poet!” Charlie shouted, suddenly popping out of nowhere. He had found the cave.
    “Ahh!” Meeks
shrieked. “Eat it, Dalton,” Meeks said to Charlie, recovering his composure.
    “This is it, boys,”
Charlie smiled. “We’re home!”
    The boys crowded
into the dark cave and spent several minutes gathering sticks and wood, trying
to light a fire. The fire came to life and warmed the barren interior. The boys
stood silently, as if in a holy sanctuary.
    “I hereby reconvene
the Welton Chapter of the Dead Poets Society,” Neil said solemnly. “These
meetings will be conducted by me and by the rest of the new initiates now
present. Todd Anderson, because he prefers not to read, will keep minutes of
the meetings.” Todd winced as Neil spoke, unhappy but unable to speak up for
himself.
    “I will now read the
traditional opening message from society member Henry David Thoreau.” Neil
opened the book that Keating had left him and read: “‘I went to the woods
because I wished to live deliberately.’” He skipped through the text. “T wanted
to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life!’”
    “I’ll second that!”
Charlie interrupted.
    “To put to rout all
that was not life,”‘ Neil continued, skipping again. “‘And not, when I came to
die, discover that I had not lived. ‘” There was a long silence.
    “Pledge Overstreet,”
Neil said.
    Knox rose. Neil
handed him the book. Knox found another page and read: “‘If one advances
confidently in the direction of his dreams, he will meet with a success
unexpected in common hours.’ Yes!” Knox said, his eyes blazing. “I want success
with Chris!“
    Charlie took the
book from Knox. “Come on, man,” he said, making a face at Knox, “this is
serious.” Charlie cleared his throat.
     
    “There’s the
wonderful love of a beautiful maid,
    And the love of a
staunch, true man,
    And the love of a
baby that’s unafraid.
    All have existed
since time began.
    But the most
wonderful love, the Love of all loves,
    Even greater than
the love for Mother,
    Is the infinite,
tenderest, passionate love,
    Of one dead drunk
for another.”
     
    “Author anonymous,”
Charlie laughed as he handed the book to Pitts.
    “‘Here lies my wife:
here let her lie. Now she’s at rest... And so am I!’” Pitts giggled. “John
Dryden, 1631-1700. I never thought those guys had a sense of humor!” he said.
    Pitts handed the
book to Todd while the boys laughed at his joke. Todd froze, holding the book,
and Neil