At 72^nd St. it was the same show as last week.  Only the workhorse red and pink dog roses provided color on the ground; in the air, dogwood flowers fluttered white as clouds.  Except for a random stella and a couple of yellow foxglove, the park was undergoing June death, or, if not quite death, then June coma, when spring sputters out and nature takes a breather before full-blown summer.

The clover heads in the lawn surrounding Daniel Webster were white and shriveled.  “Look at that, Daddy,” said a boy of about 10.  Birds had built a nest in the crook of Webster’s arm.  The glorious catalpa trees were a mess; browning petals dripped like candle wax onto the leaves below.

Forget Bethesda Fountain.  The acrobats had moved their act down from the promenade.  Music blared.  One of the acrobats was warming up the audience with gansta-style shtick, getting them to call out and clap with him.  Colin the cowboy was packing up.  I kept walking, first to the maple, where a caricaturist had set up, then to Location C, on the path across from the boat rental booth, in the shade of some tall bushes.

After a slow start, 2 toddlers, aged 2 and 3, stopped to dance the hula.  Crowds gathered to soak up the cuteness, then dispersed at the end of “The Hukilau Song.”  Dad gave me $2.

A kid of 7 or 8 got a quarter from his father and gave it to me.  A little later a 20-something threw in another quarter.  I was thinking about my breakeven when a 60-something woman came out of nowhere with a tightly crumpled single for me.  A gentleman emptied his pocket of change.

A 40-something woman ran up and started picking out a lei.  She put a dollar in my case and asked for a photo.  Her husband or boyfriend took the picture; she hated it.  “My nose is all lit up.”  He took another that she didn’t like either.  “Maybe I just don’t like the way I look.”  I put my hat on her head to shade her nose; this one was a keeper.

“Now a hula dance,” she said, and off we went to the hukilau.

Near the end of my set a young man dumped a fistful change into my case.  “Nice job.”

I counted out $6.93, happy with my haul.  Then I spotted a dime, hiding in the felt creases of my case, and was thrilled to cross into 7 dollar territory.