There was something serene about the park on Thursday. Strangely, not a single pedicab idled at the Women’s Gate. The Imagine Mosaic seemed to have fewer visitors than usual. The homeless guitarist played “Here Comes the Sun.” The chicka-chicka sound of sprinklers could be heard from Strawberry Fields to Cherry Hill.

At Bethesda Fountain, the rhythm and blues guitarist with the leather Stetson, music stand and illegal amplifier, was back. Jim, the big bubble man, told me the park rangers chase him away, and he comes back 5 minutes later. Meta played the harp at the end of the bench on the path to The Boathouse. A caricature artist had beat me to my spot, under the English Mulberry, directly across from my maple. Adjudging that he was not exactly a busker, so I was not exactly setting up on him — an unforgivable infraction of busker etiquette — I moved as far from him as I could without giving up the shade, which really wasn’t very far.

For the first 50 minutes, nobody paid any attention to me; all eyes turned to the portrait in progress. Then a well-dressed woman, in pearls and heels, insisted on a hula. The man she was with kept walking, but, at some point in “The Hukilau Song,” he came back and started taking pictures. After the second verse, he opened his wallet and grudgingly dropped 2 singles in my case. The woman, delighted, kissed me on the cheek.

Next came a young au pair and her 2 towheaded charges. She was very interested in getting an ukulele for herself, so she could sing with the children. She took a picture of the label inside my uke, Lanikai LU-21T, crafted in China. We discussed prices, tuning, and the joys of aloha. “Boy, this was a real education, definitely worth a tip,” she said, forking over $2.

Toward the end of my set, a family of 4 from Wall, NJ, mom, dad and 2 grown boys in their late teens or early 20’s, asked for a picture. I put a lei around the taller boy’s neck; he fluffed his long black hair over it. “I saw you here last year,” said the boy, whose name was Nick. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

“He just this minute said something,” said dad. “‘I wonder if the ukulele man is here.’ And here you are. Smile,” he said, taking the picture.

“Mahalo,” I said, acknowledging the $2 he put in my case. “See you next year.”