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

Back in Independence, tanned and hearty after a month's vacation in Hawaii, Harry Truman celebrated his 69th birthday by digging through a mountain of greeting cards, working on his memoirs, dishing out some political advice to a high-school senior during his morning stroll ("Shake everybody's hand and ask about their friends and relatives, and you'll get along"). Next day he told a reporter that he was just coasting before getting back into politics, not as a candidate himself--in fact, he said, he would never run for office again--but as a whistlestopper for the Democrats in the 1954 congressional and the 1956 presidential campaigns. As for the Eisenhower Administration, he plans to hold his fire until the current session of Congress is over.

At a noon ceremony in Rome's Quirinale Palace, Clare Boothe Luce, the first woman to head a foreign diplomatic mission in Italy, met President Luig? Einaudi, to present her credentials as the new U.S. Ambassador. As she left after a ten-minute, closed-door chat, a photographer caught an act of gallant politesse in the courtyard: a deep bow of welcome from Presidential Aide Count Giovanni Piccolomini (and a stolid look of approval from one of the servants).

William Howard Taft III, son of the

Senator from Ohio and new U.S. Ambas sador to Ireland, arrived at the port of Cobh on his way to take over his duties in

Dublin. As he went ashore on a naval launch from the liner America, he was greeted by pealing church bells and flocks of flag-waving moppets. Ambassador Taft picked up Sean, his own Dublin-born, three-year-old boy, for the crowd to see and said, "You're home again, son."

Jobless "World Citizen" Garry Davis,

31, who gave up his U.S. citizenship in '1948, was escorted to a London hospital for a psychiatric examination after trying to get into Buckingham Palace to see the Queen. He wanted the Queen's permission to stay in England ("I'm asking for the fundamental right to work"). Released and told to get out of the country (his visitor's permit had expired), he went back to the palace and holed up for the night between cardboard sheets underneath a coronation grandstand. A bobby roused him at 2 a.m. and took him to jail. Brought to court this week, he was bound over to police custody while the Home Office debates his case.

Christine (ne George) Jorgensen arrived in Los Angeles for the beginning of a career as an entertainer. Would Jorgensen, the press wanted to know, welcome an investigation by the American Medical Association of his "change of sex"? The guarded answer: "I am not afraid of it, but I am not offering myself for a public circus." At the Orpheum Theater the following afternoon, Entertainer Jorgensen, richer by a $12,500 guarantee, was offered as the star of a weeklong, five-a-day vaudeville show. Introduced as "the most talked-about girl in the world" to an audience that filled only about a third of the seats, Jorgensen, bejeweled and dressed in a bouffant blue evening gown trimmed with silver net, spoke briefly, then stepped to the side of the stage to narrate the Jorgensen-made travelogue filmed in Denmark last year. Sample shots: smoked herring, villagers making porcelain, a Fitzpatrick-like sunset over water.

Somewhere in Korea, a photographer

got a picture of a jaunty young soldier and his weapon that brought back memories of World War II. The man: Captain George S. Patton IV, 29 (arms akimbo, but sporting no pearl-handled sidearms), commander of the 40th Infantry Division's 140th Tank Battalion, with his sergeant, Bernard D. Presky. The weapon: the M46 Patton tank, named after the captain's late father, Armor Expert General George ("Blood & Guts") Patton.

Near Bombay, a policeman patrolling a rail line plucked four giant firecrackers from the track minutes before Prime Minister Nehru thundered by on the Amritsar Express.

With another broiling Washington summer at hand, Department of Commerce employees shuddered at the news that Secretary Sinclair Weeks had acted on his aversion to artificially cooled air by plugging up the air-conditioning outlets

in his office.

At her Mandeville Canyon ranch near Hollywood, hell-for-leather Socialite Horsewoman Liz Whitney Person, who has bred, trained and jumped blooded horses for years without an accident, started downstairs for a glass of milk, tripped, tumbled and broke her left leg.

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