by Peter Roop
“What time are we going to the fair tomorrow, Papa?” Stephen asked.
“The gates open at noon. If we leave at eleven, we’ll make it. Amanda, could you girls fix us a picnic lunch, please?”
“Then we best be off,” Stephen said. “It is past ten already.”
Grace fidgeted while Stephen and Lucy wrapped Samantha and put on their coats. She felt like a firecracker ready to pop. As soon as the door closed she hugged Papa and looked into his face.
“May I go to the fair, too?” the question popped out.
“No,” Papa said. “You are too young.”
He put a finger to Grace’s lips as she got ready to speak.
“I will bring you a surprise from the fair, Grace.”
Before Grace could protest, Mama said, “Off to bed, Frederick and Grace. It is already past your bedtime.”
Grace tossed and turned in bed. It is just not fair. It is just not fair, she repeated to herself until she finally fell asleep.
As soon as Stephen and Papa were off to the fair, Grace and Mama welcomed Jennie and Mrs. Macomber to their house.
“Grace and Jennie, you make a banner while Mrs. Macomber and I make ours,” Mama suggested.
“What shall we make, Jennie?” Grace asked.
“Let’s make Abraham Lincoln’s face on ours,” Jennie said.
Grace knitted her brows together, trying to imagine Mr. Lincoln’s face. She knew he looked sad and that his hair was bushy, but no clear image came to mind.
“Do you have a picture of him?” Grace asked Jennie.
“No, but I can draw one,” Jennie told her. “Do you have any paper?”
Grace went upstairs to her desk. She took a precious piece of the letter paper Grandmama had given her. She saved the paper for special occasions. Making a banner for Mr. Lincoln’s face is a special occasion, she thought, and she took a piece to Jennie.
Jennie quickly sketched Abraham Lincoln’s face. Grace marveled at the way Jennie could transform a blank paper into a person. It was as if Jennie could see through her fingertips.
Mr. Lincoln looked ready to smile. His deep-set eyes gazed out at Grace as if trying to tell her something. The drawing was sharp and clear, but something was just not right. Grace could not put her finger on it.
“He looks almost as if he wants to talk, Jennie. How do you do it?”
“I’ve been practicing,” Jennie said. “Pa cuts pictures from Harper’s and I copy them.”
“I wish I could see Mr. Lincoln for real,” Grace said. “Papa says he’s taller than your father.”
“And as skinny as the rails he split,” Mrs. Macomber added. “I’d like to feed him your mother’s apple pies to fatten him up.”
They all laughed at the thought of Mr. Lincoln enjoying one of Mama’s delicious pies.
The women and girls worked all afternoon on their banners. Grace cut long strips of cloth that she and Jennie sewed together. Jennie carefully drew Mr. Lincoln’s face on an old sheet. She cut it out. Grace stitched it onto the banner. When the clocked chimed four, the banners were finished.
“Where shall we keep them?” Mrs. Macomber asked.
“Could we store them at your house?” Mama suggested.
“Fine,” Mrs. Macomber said. “Come, Jennie. It is time to fix supper.”
“We must get to work, too, Grace,” Mama said. “Helen and Alice will be home from Lucy’s soon.”
Grace and Mama went into the kitchen.
“Grace, we will be having brown bread, beans, and venison stew,” Mama said. “Please fetch the beans from the crock in the cellar.”
The sun had set when Papa’s carriage rolled up the drive. Grace dashed to the door. She wondered what he had brought her.
Papa emerged from the shadows with a long roll of paper under his arm. With a flourish he unrolled it and held it out in both hands.
It was a poster of Abraham Lincoln and Hannibal Hamlin.
Grace placed the poster on the dining room table. She moved the lamp closer and turned up the flame.
Abraham Lincoln stared at her from a bent wood oval frame. Mr. Hamlin faced him. A split rail fence connected the two. An eagle perched on the fence. A banner read FREE SPEECH, FREE HOMES, FREE TERRITORY. Above the fence in capital letters was the slogan THE UNION MUST AND SHALL BE PRESERVED.
“The Union Must and Shall Be Preserved,” Grace read aloud. “Oh, Papa, this is wonderful.”
Grace looked back at Mr. Lincoln. His eyes penetrated hers. He seemed to be saying to her, “Miss Grace, I need your help.”
Grace hugged Papa and ran to the kitchen to get Mama.
Chapter Five
That night, Grace carefully placed the poster of Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Hamlin against her mirror. She looked at it while she waited for Mama to come to tuck her in. She studied the deep lines cut above Mr. Lincoln’s mouth and the sharp edge of his chin. His mouth was closed, his lips tight in a line as straight as a split rail.
“Time for your light to be out, dear,” Mama said.
“Good night, Mama,” Grace said, snuggling down under her quilt.
Mama smoothed Grace’s hair and turned down the lamp. As the light dimmed, Grace thought Mr. Lincoln looked different suddenly. The growing shadows made him look as if he had grown whiskers!
Grace laughed to herself. Men like Mr. Macomber wore whiskers, not men running for President of the United States. What a silly idea!
When Grace awoke she looked first at her poster. Lincoln and Hamlin stared at her. Grace smiled, remembering Honest Abe with a beard. She’d have to share that with Jennie when she told her about the poster.
After school, the friends hurried to Grace’s house.
“I’m home, Mama,” Grace called popping her head into the kitchen. “Jennie is with me.”
“I’ve just baked bread and Helen made apple butter. I’ll pour some milk for Jennie.”
“We’ll be down in a minute,” Grace said. “I want to show Jennie my new poster.”
The girls disappeared upstairs to Grace’s room.
Jennie gazed at the poster without saying a word. Grace shifted from one foot to the other, patiently awaiting her reaction.
“Mr. Lincoln certainly is not one of the world’s most handsome men, is he?” Jennie said. “I think our banner makes him look nicer.”
Grace had not compared their banner to her poster. When she thought about it, she agreed with Jennie. Yet this picture was an actual image of Abraham Lincoln copied from a photograph and printed on the poster.
“You’re right,” Grace said. “And I know what he needs. Whiskers!”
Jennie burst into giggles. “Whiskers! That’s absurd, Grace. No president has ever had whiskers.”
“Jennie, think. You are an artist. Imagine Mr. Lincoln with a full set of whiskers like your father’s.”
“You’re right. Abraham Lincoln does need a beard.”
“Grace, Jennie, come down now. Your bread and butter are ready,” Mama called.
The bread was oven warm. The apple butter spread like hot honey. Grace was as pleased as punch.
After dinner, Grace practiced piano and then excused herself to go to bed.
Grace looked at Lincoln’s picture again. I wonder if he has ever thought of growing whiskers? she thought.
Her eyes lit on the special paper Grandmama had given her.
All at once Grace knew what she must do. She would write Abraham Lincoln. She would suggest that he grow a beard!
Her hands shook as she placed a sheet of paper on her desk. Grace picked up her best quill pen and dipped it into the ink well. She began writing, reading the letter out loud as she wrote.
New York
Westfield, Chautauqua County
October 15, 1860
Honorable. A. B. Lincoln
Dear Sir,
My father has just come home from the fair and brought your picture and Mr. Hamlin’s. I am a little girl, only eleven years old, but want you to be President of the Unit
ed States very much. So I hope you won’t think me very bold to write such a great man as you are.
Grace stopped and put down her pen. How can I politely ask Mr. Lincoln to grow a beard? she thought. I’ll ask him first about his family and tell him about us, then I’ll suggest the whiskers.
Have you any little girls about as old as I am? If so, give them my love and tell them to write me if you cannot answer this letter. I have got four brothers, and part of them will vote for you anyway, and if you will let your whiskers grow, I will try to get the rest of them to vote for you. You would look a great deal better, for your face is so thin. All the ladies like whiskers and they would tease their husbands to vote for you, and then you would be president. My father is going to vote for you, and if I was a man I would vote for you, but I will try and get everyone to vote for you that I can.
Grace stopped again and looked at the poster.
I think that rail fence around your picture makes it look very pretty. I have got a baby sister. She is nine weeks old and just as cunning as can be. When you write, direct your letter to Grace Bedell, Westfield, Chautauqua County, New York. I must not write any more. Answer this letter right off.
Good-bye,
Grace Bedell
Grace put her letter in an envelope. In her best handwriting, she wrote, THE HONORABLE ABRAHAM LINCOLN, SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS.
If my letter helps Mr. Lincoln gets one more vote, I will have done something for him besides making the banner. But I won’t tell anyone, not even Jennie. Everyone would laugh at me for writing such a great man with such a silly suggestion, Grace thought.
Mr. Abraham Lincoln’s lips did not seem so tight anymore.
Chapter Six
Before school, Grace took three pennies from her pocketbook. She hurried to the post office.
“I’d like a three-penny stamp,” Grace asked Mr. Mann, the postmaster. She handed him the letter.
“Mr. Abraham Lincoln,” he read out loud.
“Please, Mr. Mann, don’t tell Papa I wrote Mr. Lincoln. It’s a secret.”
“Must be pretty important,” Mr. Mann said, “I’ll keep your secret, Grace. I’m a Lincoln man myself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mann. I’ll be back for Mr. Lincoln’s answer.”
Grace kept her secret. She did not tell anyone about her letter. Each day after school she ran to the post office. On Wednesday, no letter. On Thursday, no letter. On Friday, no letter.
“I wonder why he hasn’t written me,” Grace said to Mr. Mann.
“Grace, Mr. Lincoln has to meet many people to discuss what he will do if he is elected president. He might not have time to write to you.”
“Mr. Lincoln is a gentleman,” Grace asserted. “He will write me.”
That night Grace practiced “Ole Dan Tucker” on her piano. She sang as she played.
“Dan wore his shirttails outside his coat, Buttoned his breeches up round his throat. His nose stuck out, his eyes stuck in, And his beard grew out all over his chin, so—
Papa joined in.
“Get out’ the way for ole’ Dan Tucker! He’s too late to get his supper. Supper’s over and breakfast’s cooking, Ole’ Dan Tucker just standing there looking.”
Grace laughed as she closed the keyboard cover.
That night Grace wondered if Mr. Lincoln would ever write her back. She fell asleep humming “Ole Dan Tucker.”
On Monday, Grace raced from school to the post office. A few, fat wet snowflakes drifted down and melted in her hair.
Mr. Mann frowned and shook his head. Grace sighed and turned away.
“Oh, wait,” Mr. Mann said. “There is a letter here addressed ‘Private’ for a Miss Grace Bedell.” He held out the letter.
A smile blossomed on Grace’s face. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Mann. Thank you!” Grace said.
Outside, Grace took a deep breath. She read the address over and over. Miss Grace Bedell. Westfield, New York. Private. A snowflake landed on the envelope. Grace blew it off. Her hands shook as she carefully opened the envelope.
A gust of wind rustled the letter. A few more flakes fell, splotching the paper like big freckles. Gripping the letter, Grace read it over and over all the way home.
She dashed up the front steps and burst into the house.
Mama, Helen, and Alice were in the parlor.
“Whenever will you learn to act like a lady?” Alice said.
Grace ignored her. “It came! It came!” she shouted.
“What came?” Helen asked.
“My letter from Mr. Lincoln!”
“What letter from Mr. Lincoln?” Mama asked.
The words flooded out of Grace. “Mr. Lincoln looks so plain that I thought he needed whiskers. I wrote him asking him to grow whiskers. He wrote back. Here’s the letter.” Grace was breathless.
“Read it,” Alice said, a hint of admiration in her voice.
Grace took three deep breaths and then read her letter.
Private
Springfield, Illinois October 19, 1860
Miss Grace Bedell
My dear little Miss,
Your very agreeable letter of the 15th is received.
I regret the necessity of saying I have no daughters. I have three sons—one seventeen, one nine, and one seven years of age. They, with their mother, constitute my whole family.
As to the whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affection if I were to begin it now?
Your very sincere well-wisher,
A. Lincoln
“Why, Grace, that is wonderful,” Alice said. “And to think you had the gumption to write him.”
“How did you know where to send it?” Helen asked.
Grace replied, “I read in the newspaper that Mr. Lincoln lives in Springfield, Illinois.”
Mama, Helen, and Alice laughed together.
“How did you address your letter?” Helen asked.
“To the Honorable Abraham Lincoln.”
“Well, I guess he received the letter all right. The postmaster at Springfield would be in no doubt for whom the letter was intended,” said Helen.
Grace passed the letter around so they could all read it again.
“I do think Mr. Lincoln would look quite handsome with whiskers,” Helen remarked.
“If I could, I would certainly vote for him, whiskers or not,” Mama said. “But it seems as if he will not be growing a beard.”
“Maybe he will change his mind,” Grace said hopefully.
Alice held on to the letter. “I don’t understand this part,” she said. “‘As to the whiskers, having not worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affection if I were to begin now?’ Why would he write affection?”
“Let me look,” Helen said. Alice handed her the letter.
“I think he meant to say affectation instead of affection,” Helen said.
“What does affectation mean?” Grace asked.
“It means putting on airs,” Alice explained. “Like a peacock spreading its tail.”
“Showing off?” Grace suggested.
“Yes,” Mama said. “Showing off.”
“He wouldn’t be showing off,” Grace said. “He would just look more handsome.”
“His rivals might say he was trying to impress people with his looks just to get elected,” Alice continued. “Putting on hairs.” She snorted at her own joke.
“That is silly,” Helen responded. “But I think he would look better.”
“I can’t wait until Papa comes home,” Grace said.
When Papa came home, Grace wiped her hands on her apron and ran to greet him. She threw her arms around him.
Papa peeled Grace off.
“You’re like the cat who swallowed the canary,” he said. “What have you been up to this time?”
Grace got her letter and without a word handed it to Papa.
He read the address. He twisted his mustache.
“It’s not from Grandmama. T
his is not her handwriting. Must be from a beau.”
“Don’t be silly, Papa. I don’t have a beau. But it is from a man.”
“I hope he is a gentleman. May I read it?”
“Yes, Papa. Hurry!”
Teasing her, he slowly withdrew the letter from the envelope. He made exaggerated movements as he dramatically unfolded the paper.
As he read the letter, Papa’s eyes grew wider and wider. The smile on his face expanded until he chuckled.
“You wrote Old Abe and asked him to grow a beard?”
Grace nodded her head.
“And he wrote you back?”
Grace nodded again.
“Wherever did you get the idea for him to grow whiskers.”
“From the poster you brought me!”
Papa shook his head. “Grace, Grace, Grace,” he said. “Let’s go look at this poster. I need to see what Old Abe would look like with whiskers.”
That night, Grace read her letter again and again. When Mama came to tuck her in, Grace was asleep with the letter still in her hands. Mama gently took the letter and placed it beside Grace’s poster. Mama stroked Grace’s hair. “What ever will you do next?” she whispered.
The next day Grace was the center of attention. First the Plumbs stopped by, then the Brooks, then the Washingtons. A steady stream of visitors came all afternoon. With the election only two weeks away, everyone was eager to hold the letter and hear Grace’s story.
The two weeks passed quickly. There were more parades. One evening the Wide-Awakes would march. Another evening would find the Douglas supporters in the streets. There were not enough Bell or Breckenridge men in Westfield to mount a parade.
As the election neared, the excitement grew. One thing, however, worried Grace. Yes, she wanted Abe Lincoln to win. But she worried about South Carolina’s threat to leave the United States if Mr. Lincoln won.
At supper one evening, she asked Papa, “Will South Carolina really leave the United States if Mr. Lincoln is elected?”
“They threaten to,” Papa answered. “But they have been threatening that since before you were born.”
“Can a state just leave the United States?” Helen asked.