The word MUD is remarkably well adapted to the function it performs. The word MUD thus sets a good example to other less efficient words. For a start it is short: one syllable, three letters; one for each phoneme. Further, each phoneme is entirely necessary for the articulation of the word, adding nothing of itself alone that is irrelevant to mud. These letters are professionals not dilettantes, and here they are superbly directed, their talents neither squandered nor vulgarly showcased. The M, having acquired a precocious talent for expressing that which is round and malleable, extends its repertoire here to include the signification of that which is sticky and amorphous. The word MUD draws full advantage from either sense, but so as not to overemphasize the semi-fluid state, counterpoises the M with the D, which brings to bear here its capacity for density, depth and perhaps a little of its inscrutability too. And yet at the same time brings things down to earth. The vowel, better (although this is not always the case) if pronounced with a Southern English accent, in which it has a more neutral quality, adds to the D a sense of humdrum uniformity and extendibility and smoothes out the potentially jarring juxtaposition of M and D. It is possible furthermore to examine the perfect location of MUD in relation to the neighboring lay of the linguistic field. It is noticeably isolated. Only the word BUD lies very close to hand, which itself is a very finely crafted word and could hardly be endowed with an array of connotations more different from those of mud. MOOD too lies somewhere nearby. BLOOD and FLOOD are not far off. All this seems exactly as things should be. It has taken many centuries of constant wear and use, for MUD to settle to its precise place in the English language. It brings to newer uglier words a hope that they too may one day find their own singular niche.