"Names make news." Last week these names made this news:

In a San Francisco taxi, lean, sepulchral Samuel Morgan Shortridge, 73, onetime (1921-33) U. S. Senator from California, paled and slumped in his seat. The taximan sped his unconscious fare to a hospital. There physicians examined him, shook their heads. They had just issued a bulletin stating that he had collapsed from a heart attack and had not long to live when the ex-Senator's doctor rushed in, re-examined him. Cried the doctor: "He's hungry. He just had his teeth pulled and he's not been able to chew his food." Fed, Mr. Shortridge quickly recovered.

Shrewd U. S. Minister Ruth Bryan Owen flattered little Denmark's pride in its big colony of Greenland by holding a Dansmik (Eskimo feast) in her legation at Copenhagen. Eighty guests, chosen for their interest in Greenland, dined on Eskimo food to the music of Eskimo accordions, reclined on Eskimo brixes, called each other by Eskimo names. Chief guest, addressed as Ipatuklivak (Mightily- Bearded-God), was Greenland's most jealous Danish protector, strapping, bushy Premier Thorvald Stauning. After dinner Madam Minister Owen, called Inunguak (Dear-Little-Woman), played records which she made in Greenland last summer.

Field Marshal George Francis Milne, Baron Milne of Salonika and of Rubislaw, Governor and Constable of His Majesty's Tower of London, Master Gunner of St. James's Park, returning to England with his wife and his daughter from a tour of Australia, landed one icy day at Vancouver, B. C. He tried to get an eastbound train, found Canadian railways buried by snowslides, torn by washouts. Vastly annoyed, Lord Milne, wife & daughter took a train which veered south across the U. S. border, stopped at Seattle. Shortly newshawks came, bothered them with questions. Snapped His Lordship: "Yes, this is the first time I've been in Seattle. We wouldn't be here now if we could help it."

When Dr. Hans Luther, German Ambassador to the U. S., passed through Austin on a tour of German communities in Texas, Governor James V. Allred gave a dinner, invited the Saengerbund, a German singing society. To paunchy, egg-bald Dr. Luther the Saengerbund presented a ten-gallon hat. "The cowboys," put in Dry Governor Allred, "use these hats for sunshades, pillows at night, to whip unruly broncos or to drink out of." Dr. Luther: To drink? Ten gallons? Water?

Governor Allred: Water.

California's Upton Sinclair began a week of three-minute, three-a-day personal appearances at a Hollywood theatre. Occasion : The showing of the cinema Our Daily Bread (TIME, Oct. 8) on which he collaborated slightly with Director King Vidor. Purpose: To chip about $2,000 off the debts incurred in his campaign for Governor. He proved a poor attraction.

Elliott Roosevelt, second son of the President, did his bit as an executive of the National Aeronautic Association by trying to get General Hugh S. Johnson to direct, Edsel Ford and Philip K. Wrigley to back a North-&-South-American Air Derby modeled on the Mildenhall-to-Melbourne race.

Last summer Paris newshawks looked up famed old Couturier Paul Poiret, found him drawing a ten-franc daily dole, living in a handsome penthouse apartment, boasting of his fortune in art and wine. Last week they looked him up again. Planning a comeback, Couturier Poiret put on his fanciest clothes, posed for them squinting through a telescope outside his penthouse.

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