Color has returned to the Women’s Gate.  Swathes of yellow stellas, red and pink begonia and emerging red roses have joined the gomphrena and cleome that I saw being planted almost 2 weeks ago.  The dogwood blossoms have transformed into grape-sized seed pods on long stems.

Orange day lilies tower above the rock of peace; I can’t read the plaque on that rock without a shudder or a laugh at all the wars these so-called peaceful countries have waged since joining with John Lennon to “Give Peace a Chance.”  Dusty pink astilbe and yellow archangel round out the catalog of flowering plants.

As I descended the stairs to Bethesda Fountain, I located the source of the amplified guitar I was hearing.  It’s Colin, the singing cowboy, returned to the park for the summer, playing “Layla.”  I sat down next to him, waiting for him to finish.  Two policemen on horseback clopped through the fountain area and up the path toward the boathouse.  Colin kept singing.  When they’d passed, we started to laugh.  You never know when the authorities will enforce the rules about amplification.

Colin was done, but someone else was waiting to play, a percussionist with drumsticks and a tambourine.  He said he’d only play for 30 minutes, so I moved to the opposite side of the fountain and warmed up.

After 30 minutes, he was gone and I moved back to center stage with $3 in my case.

I’d spent more time with 2 walkaways than with all the people who gave me money combined.  A young Bangladeshi man, wired to his phone with a headset, was live-streaming to his family back home.  “They think you’re terrific,” he said.  “Say hello to them.”  I said hello.  I sang a song.  I put a lei around the young man’s neck and had him dance.  “I love New York,” he said.  “Everyone has been so kind and helpful.  And now here you are, so welcoming to me and my family, thousands of miles away.”  He shook my hand vigorously, then moved on.

A group from the photography club of PS 7, in the Bronx, also stopped to dance.  Six kids danced to “The Hukilau Song” while their classmates took photos.  After the dance, their adult supervisor hurried the kids along to the next photogenic venue.

At center stage, I laid out my paraphernalia again, then heard a violinist tuning up.  He too was amplified.  I approached and told him I’d been waiting for the drummer to leave; he could move to the opposite side of the fountain if he wanted.  “Oh, while we’re talking,” I said, “that amp…”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted me.  “I’ve already been told.”

I began singing, and before long a man walked by and put a dollar in my case.  Soon after, a kid of 8 or 9 put in another dollar.

A little girl stopped to inspect my case.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”  Her mom and dad were nearby; they nodded their permission and gave her a dollar for me.

A little kid smiled at me and gave me 10 cents.

A 40-something from North Carolina, for whom this was not her first hula, danced an expressive, sultry hula, then gave me a dollar. She was followed by a preteen whose hula was somewhat stiff. She also gave me a dollar.

A group of kids from California walked by.  “Has this group got time for a hula today?”  The tour guide posed the question to his charges.  No one seemed to want to dance, until a young man of 15 or 16 stepped forward.  When no one joined him, I said, “It’s you and me, man.”  I’d barely begun “The Hukilau Song” when some other kids walked up, put on leis and joined the first in a hula.  Altogether, 5 kids danced, ending in wild applause from their friends.

“You deserve a tip,” one of the kids said, dropping a handful of change into my case.  “You are awesome.”  A couple of other kids also ponied up.  I tipped my hat to the tour guide.

A 12-13 year-old boy broke away from a gathering of kids with a $10-bill in his hand.  “You need change?” I asked him.  He looked at me as if I were crazy.  “Great, thanks a lot,” I said.

“Congratulations.”

A young girl from Boston gave me a dollar for a hula.

Another young girl came up with a dollar.  Her name was Caitlin, and she had recently moved from Arizona to Florida.  She danced to “Little Grass Shack,” and had done so with such delight her grandmother was moved to give me another buck.

After my set, I moved to the shade and counted out $21.38.