THE FARMER OF YESTERDAY 9 



ing recruited in increasing numbers from the 

 farms. It is too late to turn back the hands 

 of the clock, though we still persist in the 

 fiction that we are an agricultural nation. 



Look at Jeremiah for a moment. He is, 

 say, thirty-five, and lives in a flat. He works 

 eight hours, sleeps nine, and spends the re- 

 mainder of his day in his carpet slippers and 

 street cars. 



Light, air, fuel and water, the products of 

 Nature, are fed to him through tubes ; vacuum 

 and gravity are harnessed for his light house- 

 keeping. The municipality, of which he is a 

 member in good standing, disposes of his waste 

 paper and potato peelings ; regulates noise and 

 smell; inspects his food; guarantees him so 

 many cubic feet of air to sleep in, a minimum 

 bacterial count of 50,000 to the c. c. in his 

 morning's milk, and a ladder in case of fire; 

 assumes the supervision of the eyes, teeth and 

 intellect of his children; polices him, sweeps 

 his streets, counts him at birth, marriage and 

 death and at the polls, fumigates him, makes 

 music for him in the parks, and keeps him off 

 the grass. 



All that is left for Jeremiah is to work eight 

 hours a day and keep on good terms with his 



