In the depths of the wood was a cross way, and she knew not which direction to take. There stood a b

In the depths of the wood was a cross way, and she knew not which direction to take. There stood a bramble-bush, without either leaves or flowers, for it was cold winter, and icicles hung to the twigs. “Have you not seen Death go past with my little child?” “Yes,” said the bramble-bush; “but I will not tell you which way he has taken, until you have warmed me on your bosom. I am freezing here to death, and turning to ice.” And she pressed the bramble-bush close to her breast, in order that it might thaw. And the thorns ran into her flesh, and her blood trickled down in large drops. But the bramble-bush put forth green leaves, and blossomed in the cold winter’s night—for warm, indeed, is the heart of an afflicted mother! And the bramble-bush told her the way she was to go.(The Story of a Mother, de Andersen. Dibuja Kay Nielsen) -- source link

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