It was not easy.

The choir-master showed his appreciation of his raw treasure by
straining every nerve to make it as perfect as possible; and therefore
he found more fault with Gottlieb than with any one else.

The other boys might, he could not but observe, sing carelessly enough,
so that the general harmony was pretty good; but every note of his
seemed as if it were a solo which the master's ear never missed, and
not the slightest mistake was allowed to pass.

The other choristers understood very well what this meant, and some of
them were not a little jealous of the new favorite, as they called him.
But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange. He was always
straining to do his very best, and yet he never seemed to satisfy. The
better he did, the better the master wanted him to do, until he grew
almost hopeless.

He would not, for the world, complain to his mother; but on the third
evening she observed that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed
scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen.

She knew it is of little use to ask little children what ails them,
because so often their trouble is that they do not know. Some little
delicate string within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and
think the whole world is out of tune. So she quietly put Lenichen to
bed, and after the boy had said his prayers as usual at her knee, she
laid her hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair curls, and
then she lifted up his face to hers and kissed the little troubled brow