Grace Bedell and the President Who Grew a Beard

The autumn wind rattled the windows of a small farmhouse in Westfield, New York. It was October 1860, and eleven-year-old Grace Bedell sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper in front of her and a pen in her hand. She had something important to say. She just had to find the courage to say it. Grace had seen a photograph of Abraham Lincoln, the tall man from Illinois who wanted to be president. She studied his long, thin face and his kind, tired eyes. And she had an idea. A simple idea. Maybe even a silly idea. But it would not leave her alone. She dipped her pen and began to write. Dear Mr. Lincoln, she wrote carefully. I am eleven years old. I think if you would let your whiskers grow, you would look a great deal better. All the ladies like whiskers, and they would tease their husbands to vote for you. You would be so much better looking. She signed her name, Grace Bedell, folded the letter, and mailed it before she could change her mind. She did not expect a reply. He was running for president of the whole United States. Why would he write back to a girl? But Abraham Lincoln was not like most people. Days later, an envelope arrived at the Bedell farmhouse. Grace's mother called her to the table. Grace's hands trembled as she unfolded the letter. The handwriting was long and careful. My dear little Miss, Lincoln had written. Your very agreeable letter is received. I regret that I have no daughter. As to the whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affectation if I were to begin now? Your very sincere well-wisher, A. Lincoln. Grace read the letter three times. He had answered her. The man who might be president had stopped, sat down, and written to her. Her heart nearly burst with wonder. Abraham Lincoln won the election. And in February of 1861, his train rolled slowly across the country toward Washington, where he would be sworn in as the sixteenth president of the United States. The train stopped in Westfield, New York. Lincoln stepped onto the platform and looked out at the crowd of townsfolk gathered in the cold morning air. He cleared his throat and smiled. Somewhere in this crowd, he said, there lives a young lady who wrote me a letter and gave me some very good advice. Her name is Grace Bedell. The crowd stirred. Heads turned. Voices murmured. Grace stood near the back, her heart hammering. Her father nudged her gently forward through the crowd until she stood at the very edge of the platform. Lincoln looked down at her. He was so tall. His eyes were kind. He reached down with his big hands, lifted Grace gently up to the platform, and turned to show the crowd her face. Then he pointed to the dark whiskers now growing along his jaw and chin. You see, he said with a slow smile, I let them grow just for you, Grace. The crowd laughed and cheered. Grace felt the cold wind and the warm sun all at once. She felt very small and very important at exactly the same time. Lincoln kissed her cheek, set her carefully back down, and waved to the crowd as his train began to move again, rolling south toward the weight of a nation that would soon be tested as never before. Grace watched the train until it disappeared around the bend in the tracks. She had written one brave letter. She had used her own words, her own voice, her own small courage. And Abraham Lincoln, the greatest president America would ever know, had listened. Sometimes one letter is enough. Sometimes your voice matters more than you will ever know. Go to sleep, little one. The world is waiting to hear from you.