THE PUSH-BUTTON FARM.

Otago Witness, Issue 4042, 1 September 1931, Page 14

THE PUSH-BUTTON FARM.

" Nowadays we enjoy—or tolerate—many tilings which a few short years ago were looked upon as fantastic,” remarks John Peerybingle in the Victorian Weekly Times. “ Perhaps I need go no further than to remind you that people in England can hear the lyre bird singing in the bush near Melbourne. If anyone had dreamed that 20 years ago he would have consulted a doctor or changed the brand. What our grandfathers would have regarded as miracles are happening every day, and it is reasonable to suppose that they will continue to happen in the future. Science has by no means reached the end of its tether. “ Only the other day I was reading about a place in England called the 'Push Button ’ farm. There, it appears, nearly everything is done by electricity. The farmer is able to stack crops within a few hours of cutting. Horses are curry-combed, brushed, and vacuumeleaned in one process. (I wonder why they use horses at all 1) In the fowlhouse lights are switched on morning and night, and the hens are fooled and consequently lay more eggs. Lettuces are picked three weeks after the seed is placed in the ground, and so forth. “ This sort of thing suggests to me that the world will never be over-populated. Our great-grandchildren will probably be able to keep themselves comfortably on a suburban allotment, while a decentsized farm will feed a whole city. And the people’s exercise, excepting the vobmj tary exercise, will apparently be confined to pressing buttons. Before it- is too late, I think we should fill our galleries with pictures of the sturdy pioneers. They will be curios in the push-button age. The farmer raised his weary head, For 10, the dawn was breaking. And touched the switch beside his bed, His button farm awaking. At once the place began to whirr. Machines his crop were reaping; But he, heigho! declined to Btir, And simply went on sleeping. The cows were milked, the pigs were fed, The horses brushed and polished; But still the farmer stayed in bed, Where labour was abolished. A button started off his plough, And killed and dressed his mutton ; His joy would be complete if now Something would press the button.