Once upon a time, there was a boy. He hath not had his name. Nor did he own a surname. His innate state of orphanage blessed him with his own autonomy. Being what he was, the boy named himself, looking at a tombstone which read Oliver Stratford. An age very primitive, no men bothered to record his vulgar but aristocratic name. Oliver did not acknowledge his ignorance but he sensed a need to educate himself. Thus he did so.
An assiduous worker and learner, Stratford worked every where he could. He studied on any matter of subject, even epidemiology. The history allowed him to study upon an illuminating school, which equipped the brilliant soul so it could thrive. The nurturer was named Sir William Jacobson, the professor of the Oxford College of London. Every day was a wholly 24 hours long, according to the sun clocks. Oliver was often exhausted, unable to continue on his harsh, crude occupation, though he persevered vehemently.
The asserter of frugality also, Oliver also learned parsimony through the hard way, often. The epitome of the vulgar as in the society of ancient Romans, the boy was moving from rags to riches, a miraculous story, lucidly.
He was born to a girl of age 14, which is not a very fortunate situation for an ambitious young boy. Inability of the mother to nourish the damned soul was the reason why the girl abandoned him with a pictographic note on his cradle. It vividly depicted her intent: a baby with wings and a pen in his hand. Thus, the rise of the ambitious was foreshadowed. Although the darkness of the ink with which the mother wrote the paper seemed to forebode an ominous omen.
Inside the cozy but lonely cradle laid Oliver, though he was unnamed yet. But the birth was not something that predisposes the life of men. It is the ambition and passion, and most important, the genius of the men. This wisdom is very true of Oliver Stratford, for he had nothing but cradle and a little scratched paper note upon him. The ink is only a demarcation of boundaries, not so much of a proportion compared to the vastness of the though scratched paper.
The prosaic story of cradle being left on a street side has inevitably to be repeated here, however, for Oliver’s story is a masterpiece born out of a mundanity of the vulgar world. This world, although very crude and cruel in occasions, clearly has a way to manifest the existence of a moving hand that somehow produces the world’s most peculiar but mind-penetrating stories such as that of Oliver.
The one who happened to obtain the blessed but damned baby appeared on the event street at midnight. The last dozen ringing of the church bell nicely humming through the drunkards of the misty London street, the one was a gentleman who was mentioned already, would-be Sir, William Jacobson.
He, too, was a mere vulgar at the time. However, he was a special kind among the vulgar. He was one of the brilliant kinds. Thundering brain fascinated many of his coworkers at London Shoemakers, one of whom named him, “Shakespeare,” for his eloquent, articulate sentence. He was an innately eloquent man, somehow. Words seemed to flow like falls from his defiantly fast moving mouth of his. He was the son of Joseph Jacobson, the great business man who bequeathed his son nothing but a permanent position at the shoemaking company of London. The son initially acquiesced to his father’s eccentric legacy. However, his very blood refused the job. So he was now a Streetman, begging for his dreams and ambitions.
The wonder of how a mere beggar found the baby and happened to nurture the poor creature is an amazing kind, however dwarfed by the immense scale of Oliver’s success. It was clearly noteworthy, indeed.
The enigmatic legend goes something synonymous with this: The then-beggar was wondering down the very street on which the brilliance was laid. To the eyes of the meandering soul, the cradle was like an asylum from the winter wind. However small the cradle was, it seemed like a huge blanket to the shivering man. A delight. A bliss. That was what it was.
Picking it up almost without noticing himself, William felt the weight of a dignified human being breathing inside, not a very beneficent omen for William at the time. Just a blanket was what he pursued.
However, no matter what he had pursued, the claim of the blanket was one of the most critical events in the human history, one can state. The connection, a very significant one, had been made, one between Oliver and William. This historical encounter would assert its own deserving fame soon enough.
William was a big bowl. Though he was poverty-stricken and penniless. He certainly was in a hapless circumstances for he was broke, jobless, and filially estranged. On the antipodes dwelled most of his family, which was shattered by an accident. The accident had killed the rich parents of William, which had resulted in his impoverishment. The covetous rivals and colleagues of the parents had embezzled Bill’s just share. Disgruntled and cynical of human nature due to the unfortunate series of social catastrophes, William was apparently disappointed though he was a big man.
Thrice such events, he was still resilient, at least psychologically. His soul robust, his body competent, and his eyes piercing, William looked a genius by the time he encountered the white cradle.
As soon as the responsibility was liable to him by his picking up the white cradle, William’s profound genius of nurturing a child manifested itself. Even though he was never married, he proved an extraordinary care-taker and man-developer. The combination of Oliver’s inborn genius and William’s once-latent talent of human development was unprecedentedly harmonious. Jacobson exposed Oliver to unbelievably diverse area of study as well as life experiences. By the age of 4, Oliver had read the hardest test in English, learned the hardest language group in the world, and refuted the idea of the most famous Christian orator of the time.
This salient achievements proved Oliver a prodigy. As the era of industrialization unfolded itself, Oliver’s incredible adaptability advanced human technology and comprehension of the world around humanity profoundly. His genius also spawned a great mystery: had he drafted the Relativity Theory, which is officially proclaimed nearly a century after him? Nobody is able even to speculate, although it is almost certain that he had at least a jest of understanding the concept of relativity by the age of 21 without any Quantum Physics information or area of study available. He simply envisioned a development of such science with almost no information or meager if any.