The riots that bloom in the spring, tra la. And the first students to gallop out of the labs and libes for the annual monkey-see, monkey-do monkeyshines were the fair sons of John Harvard. Seems some sycamores along Cambridge's Memorial Drive were due for the ax (TIME, Feb. 14), and before anyone could bellow "Rinehart!" 2,000 undergraduate tree lovers rushed to the defense. "Two, four, six, eight, sycamores foliate," chanted the Cantabs fiercely. Then the crowd decided to block traffic instead. That brought the cops, who brought four dogs, which brought indignant cries of "Cambridge, Cambridge" (Md., not Mass.). A few yips and nips later, the discretion-filled Harvards were headed for home, leaving poor John on high to turn crimson with shame at the perfidious fainthearts.
At his death in 1962, Arthur Vining Davis regarded himself as one of the U.S.'s richest men, worth on the order of $400 million. But when his holdings—mainly in Aluminum Co. of America and in Florida real estate—were finally totted up for a court accounting, he turned out to be worth considerably less, $87,629,282.83 to be precise.
Just the other night Lady Bird Johnson went to the Metropolitan Opera in Manhattan, the first member of the First Family to do so in 19 years. She made a sweeping entrance with lissome Mrs. Anthony Bliss, wife of the Met's president, that had wide-eyed bystanders glomming the glamour, and Lady Bird was still drawing stares and applause as she returned to her box for the third act. As she smiled and acknowledged the attention, she started to sit down, then—ploop—she disappeared. The audience gasped, but quickly relaxed as she bobbed up unhurt and laughing. Met General Manager Rudolf Bing had been holding her chair, and he pulled it away to exchange it for one more comfortable. That's the story, anyway.
"Shall we make peace again? Today? Here? Shall we again become friends?" The moving plea was extemporaneously put by Pope Paul VI in a special Sistine Chapel service to several hundred painters, writers, musicians, sculptors and actors, and it marked the first time a Pontiff has tried bridging the century-old chasm between art and the church. Abstract art still disturbed the Pope. "The result is a language of Babel, of confusion," finger-wagged Paul. But the culture-loving Pontiff wanted a change: "We need you. For, as you know, our ministry is that of rendering accessible, comprehensible and also moving, the world of the spirit, of the invisible, of God, of the ineffable. And in this you are the masters. It is your trade."