A volunteer gardener was laying out flowering plants behind the benches at 72^nd St.  I recognized white nicotiana and cleome, and asked for the name of a ping-pong ball sized purple flower on a tall, skinny stem:  gomphrena.  In the background, the perennial stella d’oro lilies and hollyhocks sported different shades of yellow.

I set up at Bethesda Fountain, and soon an Englishman was hovering about, waiting for me to finish a song.  “Do you know any George Formby songs?”

“I know of them, but I can’t play them.”

“But you must.”

“I tried to learn ‘With My Little Ukulele in My Hand,’ but it was too complicated.  Here’s an old music hall song,” I said, and played the chorus of “Give Me a Ukulele.”  That was good enough for him, and he gave me $2.

A large number of high schoolers in matching gray tee shirts encamped at the southeast corner of the fountain to rehearse for some kind of show or pageant.  I tried at first to soldier on, but I couldn’t compete with their amplified soundtrack and the crowd of assembled curiosity seekers, so I sat down at the fountain and waited.  There were 30 or more of them, performing choreographed dance numbers, with lifts and dips, hand-springing boys and high-kicking girls.  This went on for about 20 minutes, then they came together as a chorus, boys in the back and girls up front or kneeling, to sing “My Country Tis of Thee.”

Oh, good, I thought, this must be the finale.  I stood up, ready to resume my set, when they broke into the second verse.  I sat down again.  “America, the Beautiful,” came next, followed by a choirmaster’s idea of a socko finish, higher and louder repetitions, ending with a major chord that lasted for what seemed an eternity.

After I’d resumed playing, an old man with a ponytail, tie-dyed shirt and beer belly, pulled a harmonica out of his pocket; he wanted to play something with me.  “What key are you in?” he asked.

“F-sharp,” I said.  “I tune it down a half tone to increase my range.”

“I’ve got a C and a G harmonica.”  I put on a capo to get back to G, but I couldn’t find the right chords for him.  Before he walked off, he gave me some advice.  “You’ve got to seed the pot,” he said.  “Throw in a 5 or a 20, that’ll get you the bigger tips.”

In fact, I seed the pot with 2 singles, but to make him happy I pulled a fiver from my wallet and tossed it in.  It crossed my mind that he could have provided the 5 or 20, but I said nothing.

A woman walking by gave me a dollar.  A mid-teen girl with her mom gave me 2.  I’d been watching her watching me.  I could tell she liked the music, but she refused to hula.

Beer belly came back.  “So did it work?”

“No.”

He shook his head, deeply disappointed in me.  “When I busk in Key West it always works.”

“Must be me,” I offered, happy to see him leave.

As I packed up, a well-dressed man with a tall, skinny blonde on his arm, asked, “How much for the purple one?”  He pointed to a solar-powered hula girl.

“Five bucks.”

“For the purple one?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” the man assured her, handing me a five.  I packed up the hula girl in a plastic case and gave it to him.  Despite losing 30 minutes to the pageant rehearsal, I was pleased with my $12 take.