The routine maintenance on the Imagine Mosaic is done. One of the platoon guitarists sang “All My Loving” as I excused my way past him through the crowd. On the lawn to the left, moms and babies sat on blankets and clapped in rhythm to a ukulele one of the moms strummed; she marched and sang about a bus’s wheels.

There was loud angry barking. A young man restrained his German shepherd. Mothers scooped up their babies. “It’s ok,” he said. “It’s only a squirrel behind you.”

Did I mention the ballerina? A few days ago she danced, in white, en pointe, between the big bubble man and the stairs leading to the fountain. The music came from the arcade. She did not interfere with me; I turned my back and played my uke. Today she is in red, on my stage, and her music is recorded. The aloha spirit vanquished my inner policeman; I just kept walking.

Under the maple, it was shady and cool. I set up between the woman selling cold water and the portraitist. An Italian family was picnicking on the rock behind me. Papa gave me a buck when they left.

After 30 minutes, with a dollar in my case, I asked an eastbound passer-by if the ballerina was still at the fountain. He didn’t understand me, but a girl overheard and said, “Yes.” So I played on, enjoying the cool breezes, blue sky, puffy white clouds. A man in the passing crowd, my age, Bermuda shorts, madras shirt, panama hat and a bit of a belly, caught my eye. We locked eyes, exchanged smiles. He crossed over to me and put 2 quarters in my case. “You’re good,” he said.

A 70-something woman studied my case. I asked her if she had time for a hula. “My name is Hula,” she told me. “Not shortened from anything. It’s a Polish name, like Don Shula.”

“Then you must have done the hula all your life?” I put a lei around her neck and took her to the Hukilau. She gave me a dollar.

A woman and child walked by. The child, about 9 years old, was happy to hula. As I sang about my Little Grass Shack, she sang her own words. At first I thought it was Hawaiian, but I soon observed that she had developmental problems. “Ok, let’s do this your way,” I said. I played, she sang and danced, until the last humuhumunukunukuapua’a swam by. The woman gave me a fiver.

A mob of French girls did an extravagant hula, then kept walking.

Three tall, blonde camp counsellors, in the US for the summer from Holland, Sweden and Belgium, argued whether the building with the 2 towers was the Dakota. I set them straight, telling them about the San Remo, “Ghostbusters,” and Emery Roth. We made a joke about Hungarians. They gave me $2 for the information, but would not dance a hula.

A woman put some change in my case. Walking away, her husband asked if I knew “Tiny Bubbles.” That’s the second time in 2 days; I really ought to learn it.