The air was warm, the breezes cool. “What a beautiful day for fishing,” as the Hukilau song says. Spring sprang apace. On my way to Bethesda Fountain, I picked a violet hiding among the myrtle.

When I got to center stage, I saw Rakeem seated on a bench, saxophone in his lap, talking to a guy with a guitar case.

“You done here?”

“I’ve been done for half an hour.”

I started to set up. “Where’s the cowboy?”

Rakeem pointed with his chin. Over my left shoulder, by the water, the cowboy crooned quietly. “I can live with that,” I said.

I organized my paraphernalia, the solar-powered hula girls, the CDs, the big kahuna dashboard doll, a sticker reading “Got Aloha?” that came with my aloha shirt, and leis, lots of leis. All tuned up, I opened with “Making Love Ukulele Style,” then worked through my routine for 30 minutes, before a child ran up to me and put $3 in my case. I never saw her coming. I turned and watched her running back to her father by the water.

“Have you got time for a hula today?” A boy of 18-24 months agreed to dance. I folded the lei in half and with his mom’s help got it past his sunglasses. He didn’t have a clue. I pointed to the solar-powered hula girls. Staring at them, he started to move his arms and hips. His mother tried to turn him around, so she could get a picture, but he kept turning back to the dolls. By this time a crowd had gathered, always a good sign for a busker. Not only did I get $2 from mom, but a man, who’d gotten up off the bench to take a picture, handed me a buck before going back to the bench to sit down. “You’ve got a good voice,” he told me.

A little while later a woman took my picture and gave me a buck. Between songs I spotted my West Indies friend, an elderly woman with a proud posture and a bright smile, whom for years I’ve seen walking, east to west, almost every day. “Good afternoon,” I said, touching the brim of my panama hat.

A 40-something, in business casual, seemed glad to give me a dollar. “Thank you.” “No, thank you.”

I checked my watch, which I keep propped up in my case so I can see it. Five minutes left. I started in on “Tiptoe through the Tulips,” but didn’t get past the intro. Maggie the dog, and her owner, Marcel, were making their way down the path toward me. Marcel and I chatted; Maggie sniffed at the 8 singles in my case. It felt good to be back.

As I walked up the stairs at the end of my set, a man seated at the top said, “Princess Poo-Poo-ly has Plenty Pa-Pa-Ya.”

To which I responded, “and she loves to give them away.”

High-five. When you play the ukulele in the park, you have to expect this kind of thing.