One of the sports in summer was gigging fish. It was against the law, but the boys did it anyway. We would start down about a mile and travel up to the breast of the dam. We passed the squire's (great uncle John Wherry, Esq.) house, but if he knew it he turned his head from the window. You prepared by wrapping a bundle of rags in a ball, wrapping it with wire, fastening it to a long pole and soaking the rags with kerosene oil. We always carried a gallon with us for replenishment. We waded in to the deeper holes and the fish would swim for the riffles. Then the fun would begin. One carried a sack hung over his shoulders and collected all the fish. What a sound they made on the riffle. It sounded more like a hog wallowing than fish. The giggers went to work in earnest and the torch bearer had to be everywhere. Lots of slips and falls, but that went into the sport. Below the dam we divided our loot, and wet and hungry took off for our homes and a good night's sleep. I remember my father telling about Uncle Tom and Uncle Jim setting a net, which was against the law, and showing Grandfather the wonderful catch they had made by gigging, which was still lawful at the time. But he looked and said, "Where are the gig marks?" Both netting and gigging became unlawful, but years later coal companies turned sulphur water into the creek and killed fish by the thousands. The banks of the stream stunk with the decaying of the dead fish. To this day no fish, crabs, mussels or turtles can be found. After a heavy rain and the water was raised, the fish (while we still had fish) would come up from the deep places and over the riffles to the dam, and there they were stopped. Once an old fellow from Kittanning by the name of Chambers Orr, who was quite excitable, was at the dam when the fish came upstream. He heard this awful splashing, grabbed a stick and ran into the water, hit a fish, and came back to shore, took off one shoe and back in again. He didn't want to get his shoes wet. Mr. Orr would take us along to fish and we would walk two or three miles, and then he would make us sit like mummies and we dared not talk for fear of scaring the fish away. The dam had a wonderful waterfall of about fifteen feet, and here is where we farmer boys had our summer baths. We would gather here after a hot day in the fields to bathe and cool off for the day. (This is also one of my favorite passages, and most sad. I love the Twain-like descriptions of fishing and playing on Crooked Creek, but what a tragedy that it was destroyed by pollution. Has there been any improvement of those waters since this was written in 1964?)