The canvases, signed with a modest F. F., are never sold or exhibited and only rarely photographed. But last week, in an official film of El Caudillo's life that opened in Madrid, Spaniards had their first chance to view the fruits of Francisco Franco's hobby of 25 years, daubed in his studio at the Pardo Palace near Madrid. Shown are two tidily academic works: a storm at sea, and a rather unflattering self-portrait of the Commander in Chief of the Spanish Navy in his admiral's uniform. Son of a naval officer, Franco, now 71, was destined for a nautical career as a boy, but Spain's fleet was so depleted by the Spanish-American War of 1898 that the naval academy closed down and he was forced to go into the army instead.

During the French Revolution, Madame Tussaud got her start making wax busts of victims of the guillotine, which may be why even today the folks who run the museum she founded have an occasional soft spot in their hearts for losers. At any rate, the effigy of Barry Goldwater will not be melted down. It will be put in storage, and the museum's directors even feel that "he may be useful later on."

Apprehensively, her Mum and Dad watched Miss World being chosen in London on the telly. "I seem to be a jinx when I go to her contests," explained Mr. Sidney, a Dorset butcher, who must have been one of the few viewers not phoning in complaints. Why was that grandly designed Miss France not one of the finalists? Why was appetizing Miss Italy sinisterly left out? Popular Miss U.S.A. was vetoed, snarled her manager, because "British juries are prejudiced against American girls," a Texas leaguer that conveniently ignored the presence on the jury of such non-Britons as Tab Hunter and Paul Anka.

Actually, the panel had a simple problem of a whole lot of lovely girls to pick from, and if green-eyed Model Ann Sidney, 20, winner of the $7,000 title, just happened to be Miss United Kingdom, by jingo, she was also 5 ft. 8 in. of absolute wow.

One week before the big fight, when he turned up for the preliminary weigh-in, Heavyweight Sheik Cassius Clay, 22, was romping up and down Boston's Commonwealth Avenue, stopping trolleys and autos to ask if anyone had seen the "Big Bear," also known as Sonny Liston. Three days before the fight, Clay was rushed to City Hospital in an ambulance, after becoming ill during dinner, and doctors diagnosed a hernia. Surgery was immediate, and the match was postponed indefinitely. Liston's comment: "If he wouldn't run around in the streets, he wouldn't have anything wrong with him."

Her London publishers called it "a continuation of his writing skill" when Robin Jane Wells, 32, granddaughter of Novelist-Historian H. G. Wells, dashed off a children's tale about a blue elephant, called Tuscan and the Paint. With that kind of billing, it was only a question of time before someone asked her what she thought of her grandfather, whose 105 tomes, from The War of the Worlds to The Outline of History, made him one of the most influential authors of the early part of the century. "I hate to admit it," she confessed, "but I don't know much about his books. I don't read them."

Give a little, get a little is a natural thing to think. Pope Paul VI, 67, had just decided to donate his gold-and-silver, jewel-studded coronation crown (conservatively worth $12,000) to be used in a fund-raising campaign for those "who suffer misery." Now, here was English Actress Dorothy Tutin, 34, holding out a 1623 First Folio edition of William Shakespeare, after members of Britain's Royal Stratford Shakespeare Company had put on a performance in the Vatican. "What a beautiful memento of this occasion!" exclaimed the Pope, taking it and passing it to an aide. Frightfully sorry, blushed Dorothy, but please would he give it back: she had only meant him to give the $60,000 volume his blessing.

Possibly the hairdos were a little moplike, and here and there a trace of baby fat still lingered. But the 52 young ladies who met in Dallas for a crack at the Miss Teenage America title were long on animal spirits. Miss Teenage Tampa appropriately won the turtle race with her pet "Knight," while dozens of girls danced the monkey and the bird. Miss Teenage Memphis disapproved, saying: "I feel I cannot live for God and participate in the vulgarity of some of the modern dances." When the feathers settled, the winner was a gleeful soprano, Carolyn Mignini, 17. a Baltimore oriole who will use her $10,000 prize to study at Juilliard.

For $1,000,000 or thereabouts, he got the famous blue-and-white zebra-striped upholstery, the potted palms, and a publicity agent thrown in to make weight. But John Mills, 50, a wartime Polish commando, doesn't really need him: as soon as he bought Manhattan's El Morocco (from Edwin Perona, son of the late founder), dozens of friends dropped by for a toot, from venturesome capitalists like Sherman Fairchild to Cinemactress Merle Oberon. After all, Mills already runs a triple-barreled London establishment (casino, nightclub, restaurant) that is loaded with big game, including Prince Philip and the Sheik of Kuwait. Though Mills says "I wouldn't dare" change the zebra's stripes, he is adding a few jolly wrinkles: discotheque, a Rolls-Royce with bar, and a Bentley to carry his more diffident guests to and fro.

While flying to Manhattan to sing in a benefit concert for the Southern Chris tian Leadership Conference, Soprano Coretta Scott King, 37, wife of the conference's leader, the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., 35, struck up a conversation with her seat mate, a white girl from Louisiana who recognized her. Was the topic race relations? Peaceful resistance? Well, not exactly, said Mrs. King. "We're both a middle child, and if you're a middle child and can survive, I've always said that you can survive anything."

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