Next across the street came the store and dwelling of Colonel A. D. Williams, now owned respectively by A. Mallory and D. P. Loomis.
Then came the brick house owned by Joel Bragg and now the property of Dr. Gregory.
The next was the hat shop of B. H. Ayers, afterwards converted[69] into a dwelling and now owned by Lyman DeForest and occupied by Charles Mulligan.
The next was the old Bragg Hotel now owned by our agent at the railroad station, Mr. Adams.[70]
From there was an open space up to the old Bissell residence which recently passed into the hands, by purchase, of Mr. and Miss Jeyes.
Next was an old house, since torn down, occupied by Daniel Hayes, a hatter. Lastly came the old Judge Beach house which now is the Oliver Buckley residence.[71]
Thus I have mentioned every house and building of any importance which constituted the village of Unadilla when I first became a resident and which stood on Main Street. Watson Street has since been opened through to Bridge Street with the exception of the portion that runs through the land between the Misses Raitt and Miss Elizabeth Veley residences, but there were no buildings yet erected on it. There was not a dwelling or other building standing on Mill Street except the Woodruff stone blacksmith shop, J. Hanford’s wagon shop, the mills and the house where Hiel Crandall lives, which was then the Mill house and stood on the corner by the Condensery.
Martin Brook road had been opened a few years previous. It was opened in its upper part largely through the efforts of A. B. Watson and A. D. Williams who desired to bring business from the Rogers Hollow country to the upper end of the village. The land on either side was in a state of nature, covered from near the Eells tannery, with pine and hemlock; nearly an unbroken forest through to the Wheeler Warrener farm on the Rogers Hollow side of the hill. There was a small clearing on what is now the John Osborn farm, and just beyond, a man of the name of Wycott, had rolled up the year before, a small one room log house. The road was hardly passable the greater portion of the way and I had quite a serious time one very dark, stormy night in getting home from a visit to one of the Bartholomew families, then living beyond the Rogers Hollow Creek.
I was on horseback, and started for home about eight or nine o’clock, as near as I can remember. It was raining and as dark as a pocket, but I had no difficulty until I reached the summit of the ridge, coming toward the village, where I struck the thickest of the woods. The limbs and underbrush began to whip me in the face, and I soon became aware that my horse had lost the trail—it was not fit to be called road—but I could do no better than give her the reins, protect my face from the brush, and allow her to go where she pleased. After what seemed to me hours, I discovered in the distance, a slight glimmer of light and pointed for it. I found it to be the reflection, through the unmudded chinks, of the Wycott house fire place. They were all abed, and had left the brands burning and the light showing between the logs. I hallooed and induced the old man to lend me his lantern. When I reached home the clock was striking twelve so that I was certainly three hours traveling some three and a half or four miles.
An amusing incident in my experience in that neighborhood occurred on the Osborn farm above referred to. An old log house standing near the creek below the Osborn barn was occupied by Ethan Allen, known as “Capt. Horn,” who was given, as those who remember him will recall, to boasting and telling pretty tough yarns, one of which gave him the nickname above mentioned. This yarn related to his grabbing a bull by the horns and hurling him off a bridge and twisting off the horns.