According to Matthew Jones, the area of the present green was widely known as "Jockey Corners" because of the Holcomb blacksmith shop. The family legend that has been passed down for generations is that Matt's 3rd great grandfather, Augustine Holcomb, was a "horse whisperer" when it came to watching how a horse moved and deciding exactly how to craft the precise shoes needed to maximize the balance, comfort and speed of the horse. Because of this talent it was said that the owners and jockeys of the area's fastest horses would bring them to Holcomb's shop, and because of the frequency of these visits the area was given the nickname, "Jockey Corners."

This legend is supported by the fact that Columbus Wilcox, owner of the Wilcox Hotel, had his own race horses in the hotel's stable right behind the hotel and the blacksmith shop. It has been theorized that owners and jockeys likely frequented the hotel during their visits to the Holcomb shop. It must have been a lively place!

The Wilcox Hotel is visible to the left of the blacksmith shop in the photos. The blacksmith shop was torn down before 1920. Wilcox Hotel was torn down in the 1960's. The steeple in the background is the Universalist Church (also now gone) on Main Road.

The blacksmith shop was recreated by Ted Wackerbarth and a team of volunteers for the 1976 Bicentennial celebration. Articles relating to the new structure appear here. The 1976 building was taken down years later. If you know when, or whether it was put up somewhere else, please use the Comments facility below. Your Comment will be private until it is reviewed by the site administrator.]]>
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
⁠The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.]]>

George Lewis Oysler was born in Springfield, MA. in 1861 and died in Granville on 29 Jan 1939.]]>

Link to George Lewis Oysler house

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/79345863/george-l-oysler]]>