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 “I thought her a funny little Jim Crow and I bought her. Here, Topsy,” he added, whistling as one would call the attention of a puppy dog, “give us a song and show Miss Ophelia how well you can dance.”

Topsy’s eyes glittered with a kind of wicked drollery, and then, in a clear, shrill voice, she struck up an old negro melody, to which she kept time with her hands and feet, spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees together and shuffling her feet. Finally, she turned two somersaults in front of Miss Ophelia so close