It was the first nice day in a week. The water plants in the fountain had bloomed, lotuses at water level in pinks and golds, red lilies towering over their sword-like leaves. Two teenagers from Cincinnati watched me set up. I sang “Making Love Ukulele Style,” a simple tune written by Dean Martin, and sung by Arthur Godfrey. Of course, they’d never heard of either man, or of Jerry Lewis. They never heard of Steve McQueen, or “The Cincinnati Kid.” Nor, apparently, had they ever heard of tipping the musician.

A family from West Virginia was next. The kids were too embarrassed to hula, but not mom and dad. Another family walked by. These kids were very interested, but mom and dad kept walking. The elder daughter, however, split from the group and ran up to me with 2 quarters and a dime.

“She’s from Hawaii,” a 20-something yelled to me, pointing out her friend.

“Am not,” said the friend in a distinctly English accent. “I just lived there for a few months.” With a little coaxing, she started dancing to “The Hukilau Song,” all the while saying, “I don’t remember, I don’t remember.” Nevertheless, she danced to the end and her friend rewarded me with $2.

Small change here and there, tossed in by appreciative passers-by, weighted down the singles so they wouldn’t fly off in the cool breeze from the lake.

Last year I added “Down among the Sheltering Palms” to my repertoire, but when I tried to play it this year, it had flown from my head. Having boned up on the chords before I left the house in the morning, I played it now. A Saudi man and his veiled wife, a few steps behind, planted himself in front of me and started taking pictures. “Do you know this song?”

“I do,” he said, singing with me. At the final chord, he dug out a dollar and handed it to me. It amused me to imagine the caravan at the oasis; the camel-driver breaks out his uke and strums a song of love: Oh, honey, wait for me.