Reading

Hermit Crabs

Equal Pay Debate



The Letter

Man with the Skinny Face questions

A Man with a Skinny Face

by Stephen Wells

I saw Abraham Lincoln yesterday. His train stopped right here in Chautauqua County. A crowd gathered just to gape at the man who was on his way to the White House for the first time. Someone pointed me out to Mr. Lincoln, and I felt myself being gently pushed forward. Mr. Lincoln stepped off his railroad car and walked right over to shake my hand, as if I were a grown person instead of just 11 years old. "Maybe I was elected because of you, Grace," he said to me, and chuckled.

It all began last fall, when Paw bought me a present, a picture of a man with a skinny face. "That's Mr. Lincoln, the presidential candidate," Paw told me.

I knew that Paw planned to vote for Mr. Lincoln, because they're both against slavery. Paw always says that slavery is the worst thing that ever happened in this country and that Mr. Lincoln might be our only hope to fix it. My two brothers are also strongly against slavery, but they said they weren't sure that Mr. Lincoln was the right man for the job. They're way older than me, old enough to vote even, but perhaps that's not such a good thing. They both said they might cast their ballots for Mr. Stephen A. Douglas. Maw can't vote, of course, because she's a woman, and women aren't allowed. But she definitely had a preference for "Honest Abe," as she called him.

I looked at Mr. Lincoln's picture, and I thought, "what a long, thin face he has." I know appearance isn't supposed to matter. The only important thing about people is what they have inside their hearts. But what if everybody didn't think that way? To my way of thinking, he needed some whiskers to make himself seem more distinguished, but what could I do about it?

"Well," Paw said, "why don't you collect your pen and a piece of paper and set down your thoughts in a letter? Tell Mr. Lincoln that if he wants your vote, he'd better grow himself a beard."

After supper, I did write a letter to the candidate. I told him that he would look ever so much better with whiskers, and that if he grew them, I would do my best to convince my two brothers to vote for him. I also said that I was sure other children my age would persuade their families to vote for him, too.

I mailed my letter on October 15, 1860.

About a week later, everybody was rather surprised when I got a letter in return. Mr. Lincoln thanked me for my kind note, but he said he wasn't sure about the whiskers. He never wore any, he told me, and maybe people would think he was just being silly if he grew them.

I was rather disappointed. How could I get my brothers to vote for him if he wouldn't take my advice?

That night at supper, I read my letter aloud to the family. "But even if Mr. Lincoln doesn't have whiskers," I hollered, "he's still the best candidate." Paw urged the boys to believe me, and he talked again about the evils of slavery. Pounding his fist on the table, Paw declared that Mr. Lincoln just had to get elected -- even if it meant growing two beards.

After seeing Mr. Lincoln yesterday, I felt proud: He had raised some fine whiskers. I suppose he must have thought about my suggestion and decided to listen to my recommendation. He is the new president, isn't he?Equal Pay Debate Hermit Crabs