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Updated: June 27, 2025
Footmarks I call them; and so they were, literally, for there were only the prints of a single foot to be seen on the banks of sand, and between them, a series of small, round, deep holes. "What kind of a bird made those marks, Frederik?" I asked my faithful guide. "That is old Pedersen," he said, "with his wooden leg. He makes a dot after every step. We shall catch him in a little while."
By the way, Pedersen, are you the only person aboard who can operate this?" "How should I know?" he answered almost surlily. "You ought to know, if anybody," answered Kennedy unruffled. "I know that it has been operated within the past few days." Pedersen shrugged his shoulders. "You might ask the others aboard," was all he said. "Mr.
"Why, then, you'll have the full use of it. And may your reverence live to enjoy it for many a year," said I. At this the priest stared at me, and asked: "What is your name?" "Knut Pedersen." "Where are you from?" "From Nordland." But I understood why he had asked, and resolved not to talk in that bookish way any more. Anyhow, the well and the pipe-line were decided on, and we set to work....
"There is an authenticated story of a priest, as we are generally called," continued the Pastor, "at the time of the plague, in 1654. It was brought by a ship to Copenhagen, and spread rapidly. The priest at Urlev Præstegaard had some clothes sent him belonging to his relatives, who had died of the plague at Copenhagen. His name was Søren Pedersen Prip.
He is stronger now, but no less delicate; he loves not Nature less, but the world more. He has learned to love his fellow-men. Knut Pedersen, vagabond, wanders about the country with his tramp-companions, Grindhusen, the painter who can ditch and delve at a pinch, or Falkenberg, farm-labourer in harvest-time, and piano-tuner where pianos are.
My Master had no crucifix: but his face wore a smile a happier one than it had worn for years. About 150,000 pounds in present money. A Narrative of the sufferings of Mr. With some remarkable Experiences of the said Margit Lanyon, formerly Pedersen. Written by the Survivor, Edom Lanyon, sometime a Commander in the service of the Honourable East India Company. Agnes, or St.
It does not need any showing of paper, however, to establish the identity of Knut Pedersen, vagabond, with the author of Pan. "Indian summer, mild and warm ... it is many years now since I knew such peace. Twenty or thirty years maybe or maybe it was in another life.
Pedersen, the engineer, came in while we were looking the plant over, but seemed uncommunicative to all Kennedy's efforts to engage him in conversation. "I see," remarked Kennedy, "that it is a very compact system with facilities for a quick change from one wave length to another." "Yes," grunted Pedersen, as averse to talking, evidently, as others on the Lucie.
It was not blankets like these that Captain Pedersen gave us; we should not have known what to do with them if he had. The blankets the commissariat gave us were of an entirely different sort. As to their colour well, I can only call it indeterminable and they did not give one the impression that they would float away either, if one let go of them.
J. C. Pedersen, wrote in "Lutheran Observer," August, 1910, concerning the African natives that they still have a considerable display of religion, but "ask him, who is the God in whom you trust? what do you mean by trusting? how can he help you? and he will answer, 'I don't know, but the old people used to say so, and taught us to say so." John Hanning Speke, in his "Journal of the Discovery of the Sources of the Nile" records reminiscences among the degraded savages among whom he dwelt, of a supreme God who dwells in heaven, but who no longer received worship.
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