Dead Poets Society By N.H. Kleinbaum

CHAPTER 7

Neil talked in low tones to Charlie and Knox in the dorm hall as the evening parade of prebedtime activity went on around them. Boys moved about the hallway in pajamas, carrying pillows 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. 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. "'I 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."