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

Mighty proud of Barbara Ellice Richardson, his brand-new, baby-doll bride, "a pretty girl with peculiar eyes, one brown and the other blue." the Rev. Alvin Horn, Grand Dragon of the Alabama Ku Klux Klan. trotted her down to Tuscaloosa to show off at a race-baiting get-together the boys had planned. But back in Talladega. Barbara Ellice's daddy sicked the sheriff on the honeymooners, and Barbara Ellice got clamped into custody. The reason: bouncing (5 ft. 8 in., 145 Ib.) Baby Doll is only 15. It was all news to the Reverend, a 45-year-old widower with six children, aged 12 to 21. She said she was 20 when they signed the license, he allowed, and "she has always been ahead of her age, according to size." At week's end the couple was reunited; Barbara Ellice had announced that she was pregnant, and her daddy had dropped annulment proceedings.

Wan and tightlipped, Cinemactress Lauren Bacall told newsmen that she planned to sell the 14-room Hollywood mansion where she and her husband, Cinema Hard Guy Humphrey Bogart, lived until he died of cancer in January. "I don't feel sorry for myself," she said, "but there are too many associations. I can't live here any more." Also soon to be up for sale: Bogie's 55-ft. yawl, the Santana.

Tastefully toppered for the Epsom Derby, Britain's Prime Minister Harold Macmillan ignored with statesmanlike restraint an infield dotted with an "American" striptease tent, a rock-'n'-roll band and a "Beautiful Slave Girl in the Grip of a Fifteen-Foot Deadly Reptile," watched with reserve as Crepello, the favorite, galloped home free (see SPORT).

Actress Tallulah Banlchead switched to philosophy, found it so smooth that she fashioned a 120 proof pousse-cafe for readers of Esquire: On Elvis: "I hear that he's good to his mother and father, and I don't think for one moment that he's conscious of what he's doing." On sex: "We have it on the brain too much. That's no place for it." On the deity: "My own belief is actually very simple. I believe that if there isn't but one God, there ain't no God." On love: "Whether you're a schoolteacher, advertising man or missionary, a great part of love basically will still be sex. Naturally, when I say love I'm not talking about those sudden urges or something that men are subject to." On drinking: "We must not spit on alcoholism."

Brand-new grandparents Harry and Bess Truman journeyed from Independence, Mo. to Manhattan's Doctors Hospital, on the way acquired a baseball and glove for their just-arrived grandson, Clifton Truman Daniel, first child of their daughter Margaret and New York Timesman son-in-law Clifton Daniel. Asked if he hoped the baby would grow up to be President, the ex-Chief Executive said he wouldn't wish that on anybody, later gave a no-nonsense description of the young Democrat: "It looks like all babies two days old."

Lured onto a speakers' platform in Asheville, N.C. by the General Federation of Women's Clubs, frosty-haired old (79) Poet Carl Sandburg sat bemusedly while a TV show was praised. Then he took aim at the 21-in.-screen hog caller for the world ("When we reach the stage where all of the people are entertained all of the time, we will be very close to having the opiate of the people"), let fly1 at the plug that comes on little blat feet: "More than half the commercials are filled with inanity, asininity, silliness and cheap trickery." TV's Arlene Francis burbled a defense ("We're only babies. We have to grow") after the ancient mellowed slightly and allowed that television is a "young medium, and we will pray for it."

Socked for a noonday sum ($70,000) by British income-tax revenooers when he got homesick and visited England two years ago, Playwright Noel Coward scuttled back to the West Indies. Last week, his status as a loyal but nonresident British subject established by a two-year exile, Man-Without-a-Problem Coward (he will not have to pay the Inland Revenue taxes on income earned outside England if he stays away at least six months a year) blithely spirited himself back home, disdained to talk of crass cash: "I really do get rather bored. I find the talk about money rather vulgar. I am an artist."

Perhaps recalling the plentiful publicity that accrued years ago when Oklahoma's stogie-chomping Governor Alfalfa Bill Murray planted chickpeas on the lawn of the gubernatorial mansion, Michigan's boyish Governor G. Mennen ("Soapy") Williams staged a cow-milking contest on the front lawn of the statehouse (for Lansing's June Dairy Month). Snuggling up to a Guernsey, Princeton-educated Soapy seized the controls confidently, but could not shift out of neutral, squeezed out fourth in a field of four. Winner: Lansing's Mayor Ralph Crego.

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