It’s been weeks since I sallied forth into the park with my uke. Spring got there before me. White daffodils led the way through the 72nd St. Women’s Gate, where it met up with pink and yellow tulips, among which had sprung strange, yellow-blossomed fritillaria, each 2-foot stalk topped with a leafy bonnet of green. White and red tulips massed behind the benches, and the wisteria entwined in the north pergola was greening out. Everything was greening out, even the chestnut tree, which had been mercilessly pruned to contain the blight.

Pheasant’s eye narcissus formed a moat in the grass around the Imagine Mosaic. Last year’s winter-burned rhododendron had been replaced by hardier hellebore. Deep purple wood hyacinth lined the path, along with various colored pansies. And in the dappled sunlight were white trillium and solomon’s seal, already a foot high, not yet in bloom.

Bethesda Fountain was full of buskers. The Boyd Family Singers, as usual, owned the arcade. On the stairs leading to the fountain, a Chinese man scratched a tune from his 1-stringed instrument. At the path leading east to the boathouse was the cowboy, crooning country tunes with his amplified accompaniment.

Settled under the still-leafless maple, I began my set. After almost 30 minutes, a man gave his 5-year-old daughter 50 cents to start me off. After another 15 minutes or so, a woman opened her wallet and let out a dollar. A young couple, without stopping, tossed in 2 singles. As I sang “That’s My Weakness Now,” a man set up a tripod and recorded the final verses. He thanked me with a dollar.

At the end of my set, rocking out on “Little Grass Shack,” a man walked by with a toddler on his shoulders and another little kid holding his hand. Without stopping, the man let go of the kid’s hand, and, with perfect timing, the kid dropped 31 cents in my case and ran off, like a humuhumunukunukuapua’a swimming by.