[SPAM] The tree had fallen off--had dwindled, a

Tub, varying in size from four square feet to as many square yards. It
is placed either upon wooden trestles, or on a regularly built platform
of mason-work, under the huge rafters of a substantial outhouse. Close
to it stands a range of great butts, their number more or less,
according to the size of the vineyard. The grapes are flung by tub and
caskfuls into the cuvier. The treaders stamp diligently amid the masses,
and the expressed juice pours plentifully out of a hole level with the
bottom of the trough into a sieve of iron or wicker-work, which stops
the passage of the skins, and from thence drains into tubs below.
Suppose, at the moment of our arrival, the cuvier for a brief space
empty. The treaders--big, perspiring men, in shirts and tucked-up
trousers--spattered to the eyes with splatches of purple juice, lean
upon their wooden spades, and wipe their foreheads. But their respite is
short. The creak of another cart-load of tubs is heard, and immediately
the wagon is backed up to the broad open window, or rather hole in the
wall, above the trough. A minute suffices to wrench out tub after tub,
and to tilt their already half-mashed clusters splash into the reeking
_pressoir_. Then to work again. Jumping with a sort of spiteful
eagerness into the mountain of yielding, quivering fruit, the treaders
sink almost to the knees, stamp

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