As I entered Strawberry Fields, the ice-cold water man was scrounging for change.  “I don’t have 19 singles,” he said, as he offered around a 20-dollar bill to the platoon guitarists.

The jazz combo  —  bass, drum, horn and electric guitar  —  played across the road.

At Bethesda Fountain, the cowboy was crooning to his amplified accompaniment.  I was happy to see him, because it was far too hot to play center stage.  I tipped my hat and kept walking toward the maple.

“Good morning,” I said to the handwriting analyst.

“Good morning, my friend.”

The Ukrainian art seller waved hello as I walked past.

Four Englishwomen stopped.  One of them wanted to buy a lei, which I sold to her for $2, under the condition that she dance a hula.

Another quartet of women, these from Idaho, stopped for a hula.  After the dance, three walked off, leaving one behind to fish a dollar out of her wallet for me.

Yet another quartet, 2 boys and 2 girls, from Brooklyn, stopped to hula.  After the dance, all four walked away.

A 40-something man slowed as he walked by, turned and came back with a buck.  “Mr. Ukulele,” he said, reading from my CD.  “Gracias.”

The 2 boys from Brooklyn returned.  “Did you ditch the girls?”

“They ditched us,” one answered, “for ice cream.”

A little girl of 6 or 7 stopped to hula.  When she had done, a family of 4, sitting on the rock outcropping behind me, burst into applause.  The little girl shyly acknowledged the applause, then took a dollar from her mom and handed it to me.

“So now, how about a hula dance from you guys,” I asked the family.  When no one moved, the teen-aged boy stood up and came out from behind the fence to dance.  His mom followed with the camera.  They were from Louisiana.  Mom folded up 2 singles and dropped them into my case.  The family applauded, but not nearly as enthusiastically as they had for the little girl.

It was time to pack up.  I stuffed 7 singles into my pocket, swung my uke case onto my back, and stepped out into the sun from the shade of the maple tree.