The dark, foreboding forest beckoned. Harvey was tempted to enter, but remembered his mother's advice from long ago: "Don't listen to strange forests, especially if they're dark and foreboding."
"But Ma," he had replied, "forests don't talk!" On that account, he was technically correct. I say "technically" because, although the forest itself was not calling forward, the trees all whispered of wonders hidden deep within. Well, Ma never said anything about trees, so in he went.
But as it turned out it was not the trees that talked, but the deer hiding in a big grove of fir trees. These talking deer were one of a kind. When Harvey encountered he exclaimed, "Holy crap! Talking deer!"
"Not really," said a thin, high-pitched voice. "It's the ventriloquist
who lives up there" -- and he pointed up to the limbs of the highest tree.
"But why would he want to do that?" asked Harvey.
"Your mother
wanted to test you, so she set all this up. She wanted to see for herself
whether you were foolish enough not to realize that advice about talking
forests also applies to the trees in the forest. She's also not
very pleased that you assumed the ventriloquist to be male, even though
you're talking to a doe."
"Oh, please don't tell my mother, ma'am," Harvey pleaded.
"You plead in vain. The ventriloquist is your mother!"
And that's the story of how young Harvey learned to read between the lines.