Died. Michael Arlen (real name: Di-kran Kouyoumdjian), 60, glossy British novelist (The Green Hat) and short-story writer (These Charming People), wealthy fashion-plate-about-Mayfair in the '20s; of lung cancer; in Manhattan.

Died. Fleet Admiral Ernest Joseph King, U.S.N., 77, tall, frosty, wartime (1942-45) Chief of Naval Operations, 1941 commander of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet; of a heart ailment; in Kittery, Me. Before the dust had cleared from the Pearl Harbor debris, President Roosevelt summoned bleak, bottle-bald Ernie King from the Navy's second ocean--where he had directed the Atlantic's undeclared war of 1941--to lay down a massive plan of defense and counterattack in the blazing Pacific. ("When they get into trouble," barked King, "they always send for the sons of bitches.") By 1944 he was boss of almost a dozen fleets--the mightiest naval force the world has ever seen--and by war's end it was clear that no other service commander had more to do with winning it.

Died. Thomas John Watson, 82, longtime boss of International Business Machines Corp.; of a heart attack; in Manhattan (see BUSINESS).

Died. Walter de la Mare, 83, famed myth-and-mystic British poet (The Listeners), novelist (Memoirs of a Midget) and short-story writer (Seaton's Aunt), whose intensely personal vision earned him membership in the Order of Merit, an honor limited to 24 living persons; of a coronary thrombosis; in Twickenham, England. A delicate, meticulous stylist, shy, ruddy-faced De la Mare was best loved for his children's tales and verses--some as chilling and profound as a child's daydream, others as sensitive and whimsical as the man himself. (Said Poet W.H. Auden: "A child brought up on such verses may break his mother's heart or die on the gallows but he will never suffer from a tin ear.") To his eleven grandchildren, modest Poet de la Mare would bow gently down and ask curiously: "What do you think is the color of your thoughts?" or would admonish: "Behold, I tell you a mystery," leaving them to supply their own explanation to his elaborate, whispered incantations. His message to grownups was to search everywhere for beauty. When death struck, Britain's Poet Laureate John Masefield wrote: "Walter has gone, the land's most charming son," but many could still hear the rum-te-dum rhythms of:

Hi! handsome hunting man,

Fire your little gun.

Bang! Now the animal

Is dead and dumb and done.

Nevermore to peep again, creep again,

leap again, Eat or sleep or drink again, oh, what

fun!

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