In Cairo, on his way to become Byron Professor of English Literature at the University of Athens, arrived fox-chasing, 62-year-old, Anglo-Irish Poet-Playwright Lord Dunsany.

Playing his last game of professional football for the Philadelphia Eagles, fighting little Davey O'Brien (weight 151 lb.) not only bounced intact out of every tackle but set a new record by throwing 33 successful forward passes. Then he hung up his jersey, prepared to go to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The bulletin of the Society of British Aircraft Constructors warmly quoted the report of "Mr. Jesse James, administrator of the Federal Loan Agency," on the number of planes the U. S. had sent to Britain. Federal Loan Administrator (and Secretary of Commerce) Jesse H. Jones could not be reached for comment.

Stumped by a question directed at him when he guested for Information, Please, fat, choleric, brain-trusting Defense Commissioner Leon ("Leon the Hen") Henderson reddened, mumbled: "The man who submitted that question can receive a $50 reward from a certain friend of mine, who wanted to see me embarrassed." The bounty-setter: William S. Knudsen.

A woman tourist spied a skinny old nag slumped neglectedly against a fence post near Charleston, wrote a beseeching letter to South Carolina's vigorous, Klan-cracking Governor Burnet Rhett Maybank. The Governor looked into the matter, offered a home for the aged horse at the Executive Mansion. Vowed he: "I love horses and everything connected with wild life. We'll never shoot him, I promise. Don't let the horse down."

Onetime Heavyweight Champion Gene Tunney, in a Stamford, Conn. court, paid a $15 fine for running over a dog, failing to report the accident. Boxer Tunney, lighter on his feet than most distillery board chairmen, then swung unexpectedly through a window, plopped into a snowdrift eight feet below, legged it to a train before news photographers could flash a bulb.

Nazigogue Alfred Rosenberg mounted to the speaker's chair in the French Chamber of Deputies, and, addressing a Nazi gathering, acknowledged his "deep inner satisfaction at speaking from this place," proclaimed: "This thirty years' war between blood and gold in Europe will end with the victory of blood."

Because blonde Gerta Rozan's first good film part was eliminated in the cutting room, Austrian Actress Rozan confused Universal City traffic by patrolling the studio pavement in a strip-picket protest. By the third day, when she had got down to black satin brassiere and panties, the producers summoned Miss Rozan to inform her that if she would cease they would try to fit her face back in the film. Hollywood verdict: best all-round publicity stunt of the season.

In Bologna, fat, flush Tenor Beniamino Gigli found he had won the weekly Italian national lottery. He promptly split the 11,000 lire ($555.50) prize among a friend and the three waiters whose shield numbers he had played.

Figuring that $10 a ticket was more than the party was worth, New Mexico's plain-dealing Governor John E. Miles vetoed plans for an inaugural ball to celebrate his second term.

Tousled old Painter John Sloan, still a lively experimentalist at 69, produced his explanation of why art is dear. Because "people consume our product without buying it," he moaned, "an artist has to pay a good deal of rent to have a nice place to store his unsold paintings."

After playing for the inmates of San Quentin prison, unconventional Band Leader Artie Shaw remarked that it was the best audience he had ever had. Wags immediately dubbed the prison "Swing Swing."

John Astor Drayton, tall, 26-year-old great-great-great-grandson of John Jacob Astor (who in 1937 was with John Roosevelt in Cannes the night there was a rumpus because someone squirted champagne on the Mayor), passed his physical examinations, headed for Fort Dix, N. J. with 191 other volunteers. "Come on, blue blood," yelled another rookie. "Right with you, chum," answered Drayton.

When Manhattan reporters asked his views on French politics, crafty little onetime French Premier Camille Chautemps, who conveniently charged himself with a private mission to the Americas during the Riom trials, lifted his six-month-old daughter Antoinette from her nurse's arms, held her aloft for all to see, replied: "Look, gentlemen. There is the greatest work of my life."

Slick little Harry Pilcer, the Fred Astaire of 30 years ago, was only one of the devotees of slim, baby-eyed Parisian Dancer Gaby Deslys, who, according to legend, helped King Manoel II of Portugal lose his throne. When Gaby died, Harry Pilcer became executor for her $2,000,000 estate. Back to his native U. S. last week, banished by the Nazis from the 21-room Paris apartment of his late, fabled dancing partner (which he had kept as a shrine after her death in 1920), came aging Harry Pilcer.

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