Sometimes during these readings and sketchings under the apple-tree on
the lawn, the sleeping Medor (a huge nondescript sort of dog, built up
of every breed in France, with the virtues of all and the vices of none)
would wag his three inches of tail, and utter soft whimperings of
welcome in his dream; and she would say--

"C'est le Prince Charmant qui lui dit; 'Medor donne la patte!'"

Or our old tomcat would rise from his slumbers with his tail up, and rub
an imaginary skirt; and it was--

"Regarde Mistigris! La fee Tarapatapoum est en train de lui frotter les
oreilles!'"

We mostly spoke French, in spite of strict injunctions to the contrary
from our fathers and mothers, who were much concerned lest we should
forget our English altogether.

In time we made a kind of ingenious compromise; for Mimsey, who was
full of resource, invented a new language, or rather two, which we
called Frankingle and Inglefrank, respectively. They consisted in
anglicizing French nouns and verbs and then conjugating and pronouncing
them Englishly, or _vice versa_.

For instance, it was very cold, and the school-room window was open, so
she would say in Frankingle--

"Dispeach yourself to ferm the feneeter, Gogo. It geals to pier-fend! we
shall be inrhumed!" or else, if I failed to immediately