Another cool morning developed into another beautiful day. Behind the benches, a single rose bloomed high atop a singularly aggressive branch. The dogwood fruit, pink and spiky, hung over the button seller’s head. The guitarist at the mosaic sang “In My Life.” Where the art seller lounged with a book on a plastic beach chair, the electric guitarist sat on the ground, picking out riffs.

At Bethesda Fountain, while the cowboy sang his final 2 songs, “Sweet Caroline” and “Would You Know My Name,” I chatted with a group of bible-schoolers from Rochester. When I stood up to play, I asked, “Would you guys like to dance the hula?” In response, one of them said, “We don’t dance.”

An elderly man stood some distance away taking my picture. He came a little closer and took some more. When he lowered his camera, he pulled a dollar from his pocket. He told me he used to live in the city, but had retired to Albuquerque. “You picked the perfect time to come back,” I said, taking in the blue sky, the happy crowd, the architectural and natural beauty, all in one broad sweep of my arm.

Two girls from Long Island did the hula and gave me a dollar. Two girls from Queens did the hula and walked away.

Ninety degrees around the fountain, facing the arcade, a saxophonist started wailing. This, of course, was a flagrant breach of busker etiquette. When he turned on his electric accompaniment, which seemed to consist of a drum and bass, it was an illegal act. For a while, I contemplated going over and talking to him, or moving my operation somewhere else, but in the end I decided to summon all the aloha spirit I had and play on. Even when the violinist from the arcade joined him, even when people on the benches applauded enthusiastically, I sang my songs.

A woman took a video of my singing “Sunday,” both verses, then came forward with a fiver. A 7 or 8-year-old girl stopped to listen. “Have you got time for a hula today?” She shook her head and ran back to her parents, who were listening to the sax. Sometime later, she came back with a dollar. “Have you got time for a hula now?” Again, she shook her head and ran off. I saw her skipping around near her parents; she was playing the air-ukulele.

A family rode up on bikes. The teenage daughter started moving to the music. It wasn’t long before she was at my side, lei-ed and hula-ing.

At the end of my set, I counted an even $10, not bad for such a competitive outing. Then all the attention shifted to a 1-year-old girl who was walking wobbly in brand new shiny black patent leather shoes. With each uncertain step, the shoes squeaked loudly, succeeding where I failed, to drown out the sax.