Veals

You don't understand exactly what it is to compare people to animals in a commercial breeding operation as Darwinists were so much at ease with doing, no doubt the original ones based in the habits they gained as members of the favored class of the British class system, no doubt their American analogs, in many cases, based in habits of thought retained from legal slavery, de facto-Jim Crow inequality and the slaughter of the native inhabitants of the Americas. 

Maybe the 19th early 20th century Maine Poet Holman F. Day can give you a clue as to what the country squire Darwin whose work made him a close observer of such animal breeding operations was advocating be done to human beings, children being an especially obsessive focus of the Darwinists' cold eyes. 

It's a jolly sort of season, is the spring — is the spring,
And there isn't any reason for not feeling like a king.
The sun has got flirtatious and he kisses Mistress Maine,
And she pouts her lips, a-saying, " Mister, can't you come again? "
The hens are all a-laying, the potatoes sprouting well,
And fodder spent so nicely that I'll have some hay to sell.
But when I get to feeling just as well as I can feel,
All to once it comes across me that I've got them calves to veal.

Oh! I can't go in the stanchion, look them mothers in the eye,
For I'm meditatin' murder; planning how their calves must die.
Every time them little shavers grab a teat, it wrings my heart,
— Hate to see 'em all so happy, for them cows and calves must part.
That's the reason I'm so mournful; that's the reason in the spring
I go feeling just like Nero or some other wicked thing,
For I have to slash and slaughter; have to set an iron heel
On the feelings of them mothers; I have got them calves to veal.

Spring is happy for the poet and the lover and the girl,
But the farmer has to do things that will make his harslet curl.
And the thing that hits me hardest is to stand the lonesome moos
Of that stanchion full of critters when they find they're going to lose
Little Spark-face, Little Brindle — when the time has come to part,
And the calves go off a-blatting in a butcher's rattling cart.
Though the cash the butcher pays me sort of smooths things up and salves
All the really rawest feeling when I sell them little calves,
Still I'm mournful in the springtime; knocks me off my even keel,
Seeing suffering around me when I have them calves to veal. 

No doubt the elite, college educated, modern, enlightenment era men of science would sniff or scoff at the educated bumpkin's sentiments.  

Several of the things I've read analyzing the murders of the Nazis noted they were especially interested in killing as many children as they could. I don't think that's unrelated to what happens in a farm breeding operation.