The park was as crowded on Saturday as I’ve ever seen it. Little knots of NYC policemen were scattered all about, keeping an eye out. Ordinarily city cops are scarce in the park, with most authority invested in the Central Park Conservancy, so maybe this marks a policy change from the old administration.

The daffodils are done; now the tulips are in full-throated bloom. Along the edge of the path, violets and dandelions cling to the wire fence, safe from the lawn mower, while across the road to the south several maple trees unfold their rusty red leaves to the sun. The break dancers’ boom box was audible at 50 yards. Arlen and Meta bravely played over the din.

At my spot on the path by the Lake, I opened with “Making Love Ukulele Style,” and for the next 20 minutes I lifted my voice to the sky, since no one on the ground was paying any attention. At last, 3 girls from Thailand stopped to hula and take pictures. Not long afterward, a proper gentleman in ascot and cap, with a pencil-thin mustache, asked me if he might take a picture. I smiled. He focused, clicked, then dropped a sawbuck in my case. Half an hour in, I already had $13.

A lovely couple from New Mexico stopped to talk, first about ukuleles, then, at length, about how much we were enjoying our retirements. “Well, this has been worth $2,” he said, reaching for his wallet. His wife was aghast. “How can you say that to the man?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I play my music for free. You decide what it’s worth.”

To end my 90 minute set, I sang “My Little Grass Shack,” and shouted to the passing crowd, “Aloha, New York.” While packing up, a young woman approached me from behind, where she and her friends had been picnicking on the newly seeded lawn. She handed me 3 singles over the fence. Not counting the 5 centavos coin that was mixed in with the change dropped by some Brazilians, my total take was $22.19, just a penny shy of my personal best.