With clouds covering the sun, the day started out cool and windy. The heads of all the tulips were blown away, leaving naked stems blowing in the breeze, like masts of a hundred ships in harbor. The guitarist was singing “Let It Be” at the mosaic. I barreled through the crowd, wishing I’d worn a jacket over my rayon aloha shirt. At the fountain, the azaleas had burst forth in thick blooms of white, pink and fuchsia, while Meta huddled against the cold under her shawl on her bench.

“I can’t take this much longer,” she said. “What time is it?” It was not even noon. “Oh, maybe another half hour, at most.”

I set up my case under the maple, but spent my busking time farther along the path, in the sun. A young man dropped 38 cents early on, and a guy walking by added a dollar. Three girls from Columbia Prep danced a fine hula, and a man painstakingly took a picture, none of whom thought to contribute. The doo wop group was at it again; I could see crowds form closer to the Boathouse. With 45 minutes left in my set, I threw everything back in my case and carried it back to the fountain.

Meta was packing up to leave, so I stepped out into the sun, set up again and played center stage for the duration. “Here’s how I spent my winter,” I told her, breaking out into “My Baby Just Cares for Me,” an Eddie Cantor hit from 1930.

A mob of kids from IS 318 in Brooklyn had time for a hula. Their teacher reached into her pocket – not for the first time, I suspect — and found $2 for me.

A familiar face stepped forward to shake my hand. “I listen to you all the time and never gave you anything.” The man, about my age, remedied that with a buck. Two men, not at all familiar but also about my age, stopped to chat. “You’re still here,” one said, “and singing out as well as ever. See this guy,” he turned to his friend, “I came to New York 6 years ago and he was standing right here with that ukulele. How about a song for my friend?”

“Here’s one written by Dean Martin, performed by Arthur Godfrey.” I launched into “Making Love Ukulele Style.” They heard me through, shook my hand and walked off.

Although the clouds had thinned and the sun shone through finally to warm the day, the wind still blew in cold gusts. At one point, my money blew out of my case; at another, a lei ended up in the fountain. A young bearded fellow who had been sitting along the edge of the fountain with his dog pulled it from the drink. He laid it out on the stone seat to dry. “Do you do parties?” he asked. I told him I’d done a kid’s birthday party at an east side pizzeria once. I’d charged $25 for 30 minutes, but the father gave me $45, saying I was a hell of lot cheaper than a clown.

“This would be a baby shower,” he said, “on Long Island.”

I gave him my card and told him to let me know what he had in mind. He gave me a dollar and said he would.