I took up my uke at center stage, under a wind-swept October sky. Clouds, some dark with rain, passed in front of the sun, then moved off to the southeast. The crowds were sparse today, only a few people on the stone benches, reading, eating, enjoying an illegal smoke. An elderly woman started me off with a buck and a smile.

A family of four stopped nearby. Dad gave his young son some money. As he approached to give it to me, I watched the kid unfold two singles and put one in his pocket. I got the other.

A quartet of young Brazilians danced by. “How about a hula today?”

One woman looked interested, but she needed encouragement. “Don’t let it rain. A hula will chase away the clouds and bring out the sun. Do it for your friends, do it for yourself.” She danced, and damn if the sun didn’t emerge .

A 50-something couple strolled down the path toward me. When they got to the benches they sat down and listened to my rendition of “Honolulu Baby.” They were Brits. “Do you know that song?” I asked the man when he made his $2 donation.

“No,” he said, “but you sure sold it. You’ve got charm.”

One of the reasons I prefer center stage to my spot on the path under the maple is that people get a chance to hear more than a snippet as they walk by. Another couple of a certain age had been listening for a while before thanking me with a dollar. Two young women took a seat and, between bites of their sandwiches, struck silly poses for each other. It was inevitable that one of them would answer the call of the uke.

“I don’t know how to hula,” the mocha-skinned California girl told me.

“Just do what’s comfortable for you,” I said. “No rules.”

She must have seen people hula, however, because she had all the moves, including the double-time hip action of the natives. Her friend filmed most of “The Hukilau Song,” promising to put it up on Facebook.

While singing “Ukulele Lady” for the second time, a man in flip-flops and long white hair sat down by the fountain to listen. He introduced himself as Mr. Melody TM, told me he was an international music distributor and asked me if I had any of my own material. When I told him I only played the old songs, he asked me to listen to his latest release; maybe I would cover it. It was called “Riding in the Park,” about horse-drawn carriages. The chorus begins: “Don’t take away our horses, please.”

My time was up. With $10.12 in my pocket, I considered it a fine day.