For London's Sunday Express, the Very Rev. Hewlett Johnson, 84, "Red Dean" of Canterbury, had a heartwarming spiritual reflection. "Stalin was a rough and stern man," mused the Dean. "But God's eye is a big eye and sees everything, good and bad. To know all is to forgive all, so I think that, from heaven's point of view, Stalin is safe." Just out of curiosity, did the Dean see anything amiss in the Soviet encyclopedia's devoting 78 lines to the Red Dean, only eight to Christ? "Well, you see, I'm alive, and Christ isn't, so it's only natural that they should print more about me."

A trifle weary from her duties as the nation's No.1 hostess, Mamie Eisenhower will start her second two-week tour of arduous, low-caloric duty this month at Maine Chance, the high-priced ($400 to $600 a week) ladies-only rejuvenating ranch in Arizona run by Beautycoon Elizabeth Arden. Although her first session (TIME, March 3) was on the house, this time Mamie will pay.

At Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria, a U.S. Air Force orchestra was on hand to blare out Old Soldiers Never Die as 96 former command and staff comrades offered their twelfth annual salute to the stern, bayonet-spined Old Man, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, turned 79. Among the many who wired birthday greetings: "Your old friend and assistant, Dwight D. Eisenhower."

Newly promoted to sergeant, Cadet Simeon Rylski of Valley Forge (Pa.) Military Academy, who until 1946 had a country (Bulgaria) to call him King Simeon II, settled down with Roommate Richard J. Sands for a session of rifle cleaning. Cadet Rylski remains youthfully sure that happier days will be here again: "Communists cannot rule forever. Despotisms have always fallen. Why should this one be an exception? I can wait, for I am young."

Baritone Paul Robeson went to a Moscow hospital with bronchitis, begged off an engagement in the title role of Othello with the Shakespeare Memorial Theater of Stratford on Avon, England.

The Metropolitan Opera was still clearly enemy territory, but flashy, highstrung Diva Maria Callas found somewhere to sing in Manhattan anyway. Delighted to have Maria under its wing, the imaginative American Opera Society, which specializes in concert versions of rare items, agreed to bring forth at Carnegie Hall a fine old showcase for her fiery talents (Bellini's Il Pirata), allowed Maria to bring along her own conductor, tenor, baritone. Success was assured. The stiff prices ($33 top) fazed few of her fans, who applauded the Callasthenics lustily, ahed her mad scene, stopped cheering only when a stagehand doused the lights.

Former Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden, following the titled Englishman's traditional way to pin money, put some furniture on sale at Sotheby's auction rooms in London, realized $271.60 for a pair of four-poster beds, $1,232 for two 18th century bookcases.

Wide-eyed Cinemactress Audrey Hepburn, on a grey Arab steed, bounced prettily before the cameras in Durango, Mexico. Suddenly, someone yelled "Cut." The stallion stopped, tumbled little Audrey over its head. She went off to the hospital, and doctors labored over the verdict: four cracked vertebrae, a badly sprained left foot. Bedded, she will be out of camera range for six weeks.

Richer by $5,000 after being named to the 14th annual Fellowship of the Academy of American Poets, Louise (The Sleeping Fury) Bogan, 61, mused on the pen-slogging hidden by the jeweled surface of her trim lines: "It's silly to suggest the writing of poetry is something ethereal, a sort of soul-crashing emotional experience that wrings you. It doesn't come to you on the wings of a dove. It's something you work hard at."

With the approval of the Queen, the Royal Geographical Society awarded its annual Patron's Medal to U.S. Navy Commander William R. Anderson, ice-water-calm skipper of the atomic submarine Nautilus on its 21-day underseas trip across the North Pole last August.

After a late Washington dinner, Democratic Lawyer-at-Large Adlai Stevenson rolled up to the Georgetown home of his hosts, fumbled for the key, found none. Thinking hard, he rattled a door or two (locked), tossed gravel at likely windows, jogged no sleepers awake. Giving up, Adlai headed for the staid, leathery Metropolitan Club, which had no spare bedrooms but offered Member Stevenson accommodations--of a sort. With the calm of a man resigned to defeat, Adlai peeled off his dinner jacket, sweated out the night on a cot in the club's Turkish bath.

Ten days after two hours of touch-and-go abdominal surgery, Seattle doctors pronounced ailing Alaska Governor William Egan "virtually out of danger," but estimated that it might be three months before he is fit to handle fulltime the burdens of his big new state.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.