REPUBLICANS: Kansas Candidate

(See front cover)

The straight, quiet streets which run north & south in Topeka, Kans. are named for U. S. Presidents. In the ornate, yellow-brick house at No. 801 Buchanan St., with a dried-up goldfish pool in the front yard, Alf M. Landon crawled out of bed at 7 o'clock one morning last week. Swiftly the Governor of Kansas pulled on an old blue suit, soft white shirt, red and blue tie, black shoes. At 7:20 he was down for a breakfast of orange juice, fruit, scrambled eggs and kidneys, toast and coffee with his two small children—John Cobb, 2, and Nancy Josephine, 3. Mrs. Landon, whose digestion has suffered lately from all the excitement around her home, did not join them. At 8 the Governor set out with his new political secretary and speechwriter, Earl Howard Taylor, onetime associate editor of The Country Gentleman, to walk the eight blocks to Topeka's radio station WIBW, where he and a staff man rehearsed an interview he was going to give to Columbia Broadcasting's Commentator Hans V. Kaltenborn over a nationwide network two days later.

It was well after 11 before husky, broad-shouldered Governor Landon, his collar-ends flapping and his short, iron-grey hair rumpled, showed up at his office in the State House for his 11 o'clock press conference. Seven newshawks were waiting for him. "Well, well, look who's here," twanged the Governor, a wide smile crinkling his plain, friendly face. "Top o' the mornin' to you all." Slouched back in his chair, brown eyes half-closed behind his octagonal rimless spectacles, the Governor talked about the weather, a fishing trip he planned to take, the lack of news. "You know, boys," drawled he, "I didn't sleep well last night, worryin' about you-all and how there's not much news."

At 12:30 p. m. Governor Landon climbed into the new Packard 120 coupe which he lately bought to replace an old Ford, had his Negro chauffeur drive him home for lunch. At 48 Alf Landon has begun to joke with friends about his growing paunch, but he blames that on his lack of time for as much exercise as he used to get. He always eats light at midday, gives the stream of political writers and politically-minded citizens who have lately been pouring in on him a standard two-course luncheon. When a political correspondent arrived in midafternoon, Nancy Jo and Jack Landon were squabbling over a tricycle. Out on the big, semicircular front porch, with its comfortable swing, blue wicker chairs and table on which were lying a copy of Western Story and a cover-less May issue of Cosmopolitan, the correspondent played with the children under the eye of their plump nurse, Mrs. McCue.