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

Missing from the Treasury Building at Washington was Secretary Henry Morgenthau Jr.'s molasses-colored cocker spaniel "Timmie." On the theory that Timmie had been kidnapped, Mr. Morgenthau offered a $25 reward. On the theory, suggested by newshawks, that Timmie was in love, Mr. Morgenthau agreed to receive his bride. Next day a pair of policemen found Timmie alone near the Morgenthau home, returned him.

The University of Notre Dame announced that Gilbert Keith Chesterton,

whimsical essayist and scholarly Medievalist, will teach with five other Medieval scholars in its Institute of Medieval Studies. Their object: "To bring Medieval philosophies to bear on present social, economic and political problems in the U. S. . . ."

Manhattan nurses unwound thick bandages from the right eye of beefy, chocolate Sam Langford. An oldtime, hammer-handed prizefighter known to fans as "The Boston Tar Baby," Negro Langford would have been world's Lightweight Champion in 1903 if he had not been eight ounces over the weight limit when he mauled Joe Gans. In 1917 he was stalling through a fixed fight with Fred Fulton when Fulton punched his left eye so hard it had to be taken out. Soon cataracts formed over the right eye. Unable to see more than two feet ahead, Sam Langford fought his way by instinct to the Heavyweight Championship of Mexico in 1922.

By 1930 he was broke, jobless, totally blind. Three weeks ago a doctor offered to patch up his right eye. Last week Sam Langford blinked, saw his first light in five years, blubbered, laughed, pounded his doctor's shoulders.

Mrs. Anne Sullivan Macy, lifetime companion and tutor of blind Helen Keller, bedded herself in a Manhattan hospital, had a cataract removed from her left eye. Blind in her right eye, Mrs. Macy was rapidly losing the sight of her left. Last week doctors hoped she would be able to read again, not have to use the Braille system which she once taught Miss Keller and which Miss Keller has lately been teaching back to her.

At the Long Distance Building of American Telephone & Telegraph Co. in Manhattan, President Walter Sherman Gifford picked up a receiver, asked to speak to Vice President Theodore Gazlay Miller. Fifty feet away in another office sat Vice President Miller. But the operator plugged President Gifford in on Dixon, Calif. There a short-wave radio transmitter amplified his voice some millions of times, "sprayed" it over the Pacific. At Java a Dutch station picked up the Gifford voice, blew it up another billion times, broadcast it on to Amsterdam. Under the North Sea it went by cable to London, then Rugby. Sprayed overseas again, it was picked up at Netcong, N. J., flashed back to Manhattan. One quarter-second after President Gifford said, "Hello," Vice President Miller heard him, answered over a reverse circuit. Mindful that this first round-the-world conversation should be nobly phrased, President Gifford began: "This is another step in the conquest of time and space. . . ." Soon both men lapsed into shop talk.

Three days later A. T. & T. celebrated its 50th anniversary by taking an hour on the radio, broadcasting a long-distance chat among Washington's Gary Travers Grayson, Boston's Karl Taylor Compton, Chicago's Rufus Cutler Dawes, Hollywood's Grace Moore, St. Louis' Jerome Herman ["Dizzy"] Dean.

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