Update <hgroup> children after first <h#> to <p>, ref. new HTML standard

src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-1" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Winters in Echigo</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Winters in Echigo</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Japan is often called by foreign people a land of sunshine and cherry blossoms. This is because tourists generally visit only the eastern and southern parts of the country, where the climate is mild all the year round. On the northwest coast the winters are long, snow often covering the ground from December to March or April.</p>
 			<p>In the province of Echigo, where was my home, winter usually began with a heavy snow which came down fast and steady until only the thick, round ridgepoles of our thatched roofs could be seen. Then groups of coolies, with straw mats over their shoulders and big woven hats that looked like umbrellas, came and with broad wooden shovels cut tunnels through from one side of the street to the other. The snow was not removed from the middle of the street all winter. It lay in a long pile, towering far above the housetops. The coolies cut steps, for they were carrying snow at intervals all winter, and we children used to climb up and run along the top. We played many games there, sometimes pretending we were knights rescuing a snowbound village, or fierce brigands stealing upon it for an attack.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-10.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-10" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">The Day of the Bird</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">The Day of the Bird</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Brother had been at home a year when the letters from his friend in America began coming more frequently. After each one Grandmother, Brother, and Mother would have long talks, and not all of them were happy ones. In a vague way I sometimes thought these discussions had something to do with me; and one day was a little troubled when a long conference ended by Brother’s abruptly coming out of the room with only a short bow that was almost rude. He started swiftly toward the door, then turning, came back and stood by my side, looking steadily at me for a moment. But he went on without saying a word.</p>
 			<p>Several weeks later a thick, heavy letter came, one with many stamps; and after another talk in Grandmother’s room, Brother sent Jiya out with the long lacquer box tied with a cord which I knew held a “rounding letter” for all the relatives. Jiya would wait at each place for it to be read before carrying it on to the next place. That afternoon I noticed Mother was very thoughtful and quiet; and Grandmother sat by her firebox, silent and stern, with her long, slender pipe in her hand. The tiny bowl held only three puffs, and, after refilling it twice, she always put it away, but she seemed to have forgotten it that day and sat holding it a long time.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-11.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-11" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">My First Journey</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">My First Journey</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>That was one of the long Nagaoka winters. For five months we saw only snow. In the early spring our relatives in Tokyo had written that arrangements had been made for my school. From that time I had been waiting impatiently for the mountain roads to become safe from avalanches; for just as soon as we could travel Brother was to take me to the capital.</p>
 			<p>At last the dykes were dry⁠—that was where the snow always melted first⁠—and we had a “gathering-green” picnic as a farewell to my companions in Nagaoka. One sunny morning a group of us, with purple scarfs on our heads and kimonos tucked up over our bright skirts, dotted the dyke slopes, each carrying a small basket and a bamboo knife and filling the air with laughter and merry calls as we hurried up and down the banks, trying to see how many different kinds of green each could find. Often in later years I recall that happy day as my last gay time at home as a girl.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-12" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Travel Education</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Travel Education</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>The large, well-cared-for house in which we had taken refuge that stormy night was crowded full of busy workers. With the exception of the living rooms of our host, his wife, and two daughters, the entire house was full of skeleton frames containing tiers and tiers of bamboo trays, each holding a network screen covered with silkworms. There must have been thousands and thousands of them. I had been accustomed to silkworms all my life. Ishi’s home had been in a weaving village, and my elder sister had many silk villages on her three-mountain estate; but I never before had spent a night in sound of the continual nibbling of the hungry little creatures. It filled the whole house with a gentle rustling, exactly like the patter of raindrops on dry leaves, and I dreamed all night of dripping eaves. The next morning I awakened with a depressed feeling that I was to have a day’s ride in a close-shut jinrikisha, and was surprised, when I pushed back one of the wooden panels at the porch edge, to find that the sun was shining.</p>
 			<p>While I was standing there, one of the daughters, about my age, came out carrying a straw mat of silkworm waste to throw on a pile in the yard for the mulberry stems and rice hulls of silkworm waste make the best fertilizer in the world⁠—and she stopped to bow good morning. Then she stood there in the June sunshine with her sleeves looped back and her bare feet in straw sandals, and I squatted on the edge of the porch in my home-dyed night kimono, and we got acquainted.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-13" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Foreigners</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Foreigners</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>My Tokyo relatives had arranged for me to live with them and attend a celebrated school for girls, where English was taught by a man who had studied in England. This I did for several months, but my brother was not satisfied. The girls were required to give much attention to etiquette and womanly accomplishments; and since my uncle lived in a stately mansion, a great part of my time at home was occupied with trifling formalities. Brother said that I was receiving the same useless training that had been given him, and, since I was to live in America, I must have a more practical education.</p>
 			<p>Once more my poor brother was totally misunderstood by our kindred on account of his stubborn opposition to all advice; but finally Father’s old friend, Major Sato, suggested a mission school that his wife had attended and which bore the reputation of being the best girls’ school for English in Japan. This pleased Brother and, since it was a rule of the school that each pupil should have a resident guardian, Major Sato accepted the responsibility and it was arranged that, until the beginning of the next term, some weeks away, I should be a member of the Sato household. Major Sato’s wife was a quiet, gentle lady, unassuming in manner, but with a hidden strength of character most unusual. Having no daughter, she accepted me as her own and in numberless kind ways taught me things of lasting value.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-14.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-14" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Lessons</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Lessons</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Our time in school was supposed to be equally divided between Japanese and English, but since I had been already carefully drilled in Japanese studies, I was able to put my best efforts on English. My knowledge of that language was very limited. I could read and write a little, but my spoken English was scarcely understandable. I had, however, read a number of translations of English books and⁠—more valuable than all else⁠—I possessed a supply of scattered knowledge obtained from a little set of books that my father had brought me from the capital when I was only a child. They were translations, compiled from various sources and published by one of the progressive book houses of Tokyo.</p>
 			<p>I do not know whose idea it was to translate and publish those ten little paper volumes, but whoever it was holds my lasting gratitude. They brought the first shafts of light that opened to my eager mind the wonders of the Western world, and from them I was led to countless other friends and companions who, in the years since, have brought to me such a wealth of knowledge and happiness that I cannot think what life would have been without them. How well I remember the day they came! Father had gone to Tokyo on one of his “window toward growing days” trips.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-15.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-15" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XV</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">How I Became a Christian</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">How I Became a Christian</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>In my Nagaoka home, notwithstanding the love and care that surrounded me, my mind was always filled with unanswered questions. My education as a priestess had developed my mind, but it had grown in cramped silence; for, liberal as was my father in his views regarding my training, I was influenced by the home atmosphere of conservatism, and rarely spoke, even to him, of my inmost thoughts.</p>
 			<p>But occasionally this reserve was broken. Once, just after I had made many bows of farewell to the departing guests of the three-hundredth death celebration of an ancestor, I asked:</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-16.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-16" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Sailing Unknown Seas</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Sailing Unknown Seas</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>Another happy year I spent in school. Then I returned to Nagaoka, realizing, myself, how little I knew, but in the eyes of my friends, an educated woman. This was an unenviable reputation⁠—one which I knew I should have to live down if I wanted to stand well in the eyes of my old friends during these last months before I started for my new home in America. Each vacation I had had the same experience; for Nagaoka minds, although simple, loving, and true, were also stubborn; and no year could I begin where I had left off the year previous. My friends all loved me and they had become somewhat reconciled to my change of faith, but they could not help thinking, that, after all, I must be peculiar-minded to enjoy being so unlike other women. So again I had to accommodate myself to the discomfort of being received formally, and again patiently watch the gradual melting away of outward reserve until I could once more reach the faithful hearts beneath.</p>
 			<p>But finally I found myself settled into the old life, only now with the added excitement of my preparations for going to America.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-17.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-17" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">First Impressions</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">First Impressions</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>My first year in America was a puzzling, hurried push from one partially comprehended thought to another. Nevertheless it was a happy year. No Japanese bride is ever homesick. She has known from babyhood that fate has another home waiting for her, and that there her destiny is to be fulfilled. Every girl accepts this in the same matter-of-course way that she accepts going to school. In marriage, she does not expect happiness without hardship any more than she expects school to be a playground with no study.</p>
 			<p>So I drifted on from week to week, occasionally having to remind myself that, even in America, the “eyelids of a samurai know not moisture,” but, on the whole, finding the days full of new and pleasing experiences. I soon learned to like everything about my home, although, at first, the curtained windows, the heavy, dark furniture, the large pictures and the carpeted floors seemed to hem me in.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-18.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-18" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVIII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Strange Customs</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Strange Customs</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>We had a large stone church in our suburb which was not quite paid for, and a society of church-women called “The Ladies’ Aid” occasionally gave a fair or concert and sometimes a play with local talent, in order to obtain money to add to the fund.</p>
 			<p>One evening Mother, Matsuo, and I attended one of these concerts. On the programme was a vocal solo of some classic selection. The singer was the gifted daughter of a wealthy citizen and had received her musical education in Europe. I knew her as a rather quiet young woman with a gentle voice and dignified manner; therefore I was surprised, when the music began, to see her step forward briskly and informally, bow smilingly to the audience, right and left, and then, with much facial expression, give a vocal exhibition of high, clear trills and echoes that to my untrained ears was a strange and marvellous discord, but the most wonderful thing that I had ever heard in my life.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-19.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-19" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIX</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Thinking</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Thinking</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>At the broad corner where our front and side porches joined was where my hammock swung. It was shaded by a big apple tree, and I used to put in a big cushion and sit Japanese fashion while I read. I could never get used to lying in it, as Mother sometimes did, but I liked to imagine that I was in an open <i xml:lang="ja-Latn">kago</i>⁠—a quiet, not a swaying one⁠—and watch for glimpses between the trees of carriages and country teams that passed occasionally on the road beyond the big evergreens and the stone wall.</p>
 			<p>From there, too, I could look across a little stretch of green, and on, through the break made in the lilac hedge by the drawbridge, to the home of our nearest neighbour. We did not have many close neighbours, for our suburb was a wide-spreading one with the houses far apart, each set in the midst of its own stretch of lawn and shrubbery. Many of these lawns were separated from each other by only a narrow gravelled path or a carriage road.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-2.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-2" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Curly Hair</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Curly Hair</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>One day the servants returned from temple service talking excitedly about a fire at Kyoto which had destroyed the great Hongwanji. As this was the prince temple of Shin, the sect most popular among the masses, interest in its rebuilding was widespread, and donations were being sent from every part of the Empire. The Buddhist exiles of ancient time had left their impress upon Echigo to such an extent that it soon excelled all other provinces in eagerness to give, and Nagaoka was the very centre of the enthusiasm.</p>
 			<p>The first and the fifteenth of each month, being workmen’s holidays, were favourite times for collecting; and as our gifts were mostly of our own products, it was interesting to watch the people who thronged the streets on these days. Besides our own townsfolk, each one carrying a basket or bundle, groups kept coming each hour of the day from the mountains and from neighbouring villages. There were men laden with bunches of hemp and coils of rope, or with bundles of bamboo poles, the long ends trailing on the ground as they walked; women from weaving villages weighted down with bolts of silk or cotton; and farmers pulling long carts piled high with bales of “the five grains”⁠—rice, millet, wheat, oats, and beans⁠—with the farmer’s wife (frequently with a baby on her back) pushing at the end. All these gifts were taken to a large building put up on purpose for them, and every day the collection grew.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-20.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-20" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XX</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Neighbours</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Neighbours</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>When I came to America I expected to learn many things, but I had no thought that I was going to learn anything about Japan. Yet our neighbours, by their questions and remarks, were teaching me every day new ways of looking at my own country.</p>
 			<p>My closest friend was the daughter of a retired statesman, the General, we called him, who lived just across the steep little ravine which divided our grounds from his. Our side was bordered by a hedge of purple lilacs, broken, opposite the path to the well, by a rustic drawbridge. One autumn afternoon I was sitting on the shady step of the bridge with a many-stamped package in my lap, watching for the postman. Just about that hour his funny little wagon, looking, with its open side-doors, like a high, stiff <i xml:lang="ja-Latn">kago</i>, would be passing on its return trip down the hill, and I was anxious to hurry off my package of white cotton brocade and ribbons of various patterns and colours⁠—the most prized gifts I could send to Japan.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-21.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-21" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XXI</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">New Experiences</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">New Experiences</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>As the weeks and the months had drifted by, unconsciously in my mind the present had been linking itself more and more closely with the past; for I had been learning more clearly each day that America was very like Japan. Thus, as time passed, the new surroundings melted into old memories and I began to feel that my life had been almost an unbroken continuation from childhood until now.</p>
 			<p>Beneath the chimes of the church bells calling: “Do not⁠—forget⁠—to thank⁠—for gifts⁠—you ev⁠—ery day⁠—enjoy,” I could hear the mellow boom of the temple gong: “Protection for all⁠—is offered here⁠—safety is within.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-22.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-22" epub:type="chapter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XXII</h2>
-				<h3 epub:type="title">Flower in a Strange Land</h3>
+				<p epub:type="title">Flower in a Strange Land</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p>For months after the baby came my entire life centred around that one small bit of humanity. Wherever I went, and no matter who came to see me, the conversation was sure to drift to her; and my letters to my mother held little else than the information that a few ounces had been added to the baby’s weight, or a new accent to the little cooings and gurglings, or that she had developed a dimple when she smiled. My mother must have seen the germ of a too-selfish love in my devotion; for one day I received from her a set of Buddhist picture-books which had belonged to Father’s library. How familiar and dear they looked! There were no stories⁠—only pictures⁠—but as I turned the pages, I could hear again the gentle voice of Honourable Grandmother and see the old tales acted before my mind as plainly as in the days of my childhood. Mother had marked some of the pages with a dot of vermilion. On one of these was a scene from “The Mount of Spears.” The story is of a favourite disciple of Buddha who grieved so bitterly over the loss of his beloved mother that the pitying Master exerted his holy power and took the sorrowing son to a place from which the mother could be seen. The disciple was horrified to behold his precious mother climbing painfully over a hilly path made of sharp spears.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, good Master,” he cried, “you have brought me to the ‘Hell of Seven Hills.’ Why is my mother here? She never, throughout her life, did a wicked deed.”</p>