Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1911-Jan 1912)

The Rebellious Blossom (Lubin) By MALCOLM CAMPBELL ON a certain morning in the month of June, in the year 19 — , a fair young girl might have been observed stealing warily along the road that terminated at the railway station in the little town of X — . In her clear blue eyes was the light of courage, and in her hand a suitcase, which knocked distressingly against her knees as she hurried along the highway. This, dear reader, was no other than the beautiful Flora, whose romantic adventures we will now pursue. Having written that much, I seemed to slow down with the distressing finality characteristic of the auto when we have gone out without having thought to fill the gasoline tank, and from that the dear reader will see that I am not a really-truly authoress. In fact, I have never before undertaken to write a story, so must ask the dear reader to overlook any shortcomings. Perhaps it would be well to explain right off just who I am. My name is Flora, which I have always insisted on, tho Mama persists in calling me "Flo," which I have repeatedly pointed out to her, tho in the gentlest manner, is not in keeping with my natural dignity. Mr. Wilcox, who was a friend of Mama's even before she met Papa, called me, the first time he saw me, "The Blossom," and as that was a compliment, I could not resent his impertinence. He explained that Flora was Latin for flowers, and that I looked just like a rosebud, and every one seemed to think the name quite appropriate, and it gave the bashful boys a chance to say sentimental things without blushing themselves to death — you see, they could just come around and sing: "You are my garden of beautiful roses. My own rose, my own rose, that's you!" Or something of that sort, and, of course, I would understand. Being sixteen years of age, I am quite grown-up, and as Papa died years and years ago, I have been compelled to buffet the shocks of life, which probably accounts for the strength of my nature and the gentle sadness which sometimes fills my heart. Mama, you know, is quite too gentle to face the world alone, altho I have at times suspected that she thought herself capable, not only of judging what would be best for herself, but of selecting a path for me to tread. This characteristic has been one of the causes which have made me old even beyond my years. In the matter of selecting my boarding-school, Mama showed a stubbornness that was most distressing, and, to avoid positive coldness between us, I finally yielded to her entreaties and went to Hillcrest Seminary, tho, by the instinct I have always possessed, I was forewarned that trouble would follow. My premonition was confirmed in less than two weeks, when Miss Sharpe, the principal, thrust herself rudely into my room when I was entertaining a few of the girls with a little midnight feast. Besides spoiling a delightful little party, the hateful thing was unjust enough to say that that was the seventh serious infraction of the rules which I had committed since I arrived at the school, when she knew perfectly well that it was only the sixth time, and that her old rules were silly, anyway — I mean she knew they were, not that she said so. And she wrote to Mama, for the third time — for the last time, she said, and I certainly did hope so, for Mama was never capable of taking such matters with the calm indifference they really deserved. To say that I was astonished at the