The saxophone blared from center stage, simulating laughter with a reedy run in thirds down the scale, before breaking into “The Girl from Ipanema.” Two caricature artists worked the rise in the path, a painter sold his park scenes at the crest, and I set up at my usual spot, under the towering maple. The day was warm, the sky cloudless blue.

A German girl was the first to drop a dollar in my case. “Haben Sie die Zeit für eine Hulatanzen heute?” She did not.

Two Swiss men had been rowing on the lake, heard me singing, and wanted to give me a dollar. I often get reaction from folks in boats, a wave or a smile, but rarely does anyone seek me out afterward. Once, several years ago, a young woman asked me to play “Honolulu Baby.” She knew that I knew the song because she’d heard me singing it when she was on the lake a few days before. I had revived a favorite memory of her grandmother singing it while bouncing her on her knee.

A short-haired southern lady with a backpack hurried by, gave me a buck, and wished me a wonderful day.

About a dozen pre-teen girls came noisily up the path. I asked their leader, a thin, middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard, if they had time for a hula.

“Have we got time for a hula?” he asked. The response was a boisterous affirmative. They danced to 3 verses of the “The Hukilau Song,” passing the leis to each other between verses so everyone had a chance to wear one. The leader gave a fiver to one of the girls to drop in my case. “The group I brought last year did the hula too; it’s getting to be a tradition.”

Next up was an Australian family, with a young boy who tried to hula, but only managed to move his shoulders up and down. Dad gave him some coins for me. When they’d gone, I peeked into my case to see a quarter and a penny among the folding money. I also looked at my watch, which I keep in my case, and was amazed to see that my 90 minute set was over.