tricken
recognition of the awful presence, Daisy alarmed the whole household
with his cry, "Come quick! I believe papa is dead!"

And so it was. Death had stolen upon Eugene Field as he slept. And so
they found him, lying in a natural position, his hands clasped over his
heart, his head turned to one side, and his lips half parted, as if
about to speak.

It was just such a death as he had often said would be his choice. Just
a dropping to sleep here and an awakening yonder. The doctor said it
was heart-failure, resulting from a sudden spasm of pain. But the face
bore no trace of pain. The moan that wakened Daisy was probably that
sigh with which mortal parts with mortality--the parting breath between
life and death, which will scarcely stir a feather and yet will awaken
the soundest sleeper. To my mind Eugene Field died as his father, "of
physical exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an
incapacity on their part to discharge the vital functions--a wearing
out of the machine before the end of the term for which its duration
was designed."

And thus there passed from the midst of us as gentle and genial a
spirit as ever walked the earth. I know not why his death should recall
that memorable scene of Mallory's, the death of Launcelot, unless it be
that Field considered it the most beautiful passage in English
literature:

So when sir Bors and his fellowes came to his bed, they found him
starke dead, and hee lay as hee had smiled, and the sweetest savour
about him that ever they smelled. Then was there weeping and wringing
of hands, and the greatest dole they made that ever made men....

Then went sir Bors unto sir Ector, and told him how there lay his
brother sir Launcelot dead. And then sir Ector threw his shield, his
sword, and his helme from him; and when hee beheld sir Launcelot's
visage hee fell down in a sowne, and when hee awaked it were hard for
any tongue to tell the dolefull complaints that hee made for his
brother. "Ah, sir Launcelot," said hee, "thou were head of all
Christian knights! And now, I dare say," said sir Ector, "that, sir
Launcelot there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly
knights hands; and thou were the curtiest that ever beare shield; and
thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse, and
thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and
thou were the kindest man that ever strooke with sword; and thou were
the goodlies