The tower is large, and high enough to tell what the way of the wind is without any potato-bury on the top, and the simple roof is not cruciated with tiles of misguided fancy.

But gray rest, and peace of ages, and content of lying calmly six feet deeper than the bustle of the quick; memory also, and oblivion, following each other slowly, like the shadows of the church-yard trees--for all of these no better place can be, nor softer comfort.
For the village of Shoxford runs up on the rise, and straggles away from its burial-place, as a child from his school goes mitching.

There are some few little ups and downs in the manner of its building, as well as in other particulars about it; but still it keeps as parallel with the crooked river as the far more crooked ways of men permit.

But the whole of the little road of houses runs down the valley from the church-yard gate; and above the church, looking up the pretty valley, stands nothing but the mill and the plank bridge below it; and a furlong above that again the stone bridge, where the main road crosses the stream, and is consoled by leading to a big house--the Moonstock Inn.
The house in which my father lived so long--or rather, I should say, my mother, while he was away with his regiment--and where we unfortunate seven saw the light, stands about half-way down the little village, being on the right-hand side of the road as you come down the valley from the Moonstock bridge.

Therefore it is on the further and upper side of the street--if it can be called a street--from the valley and the river and the meads below the mill, inasmuch as every bit of Shoxford, and every particle of the parish also, has existence--of no mean sort, as compared with other parishes, in its own esteem--on the right side of the river Moon.
My father's house, in this good village, standing endwise to the street, was higher at one end than at the other.