A Bug's Life

I was woken this morning by the muted sound of horns, repeating a proud CCCG___ taraa!taraa! CCCG___ taraa! Strange Herald of the Morn, from whence do you come, and what do you proclaim? If 'tis the lady tamaranth with a new alarm clock, she is sleeping through it most uncharacteristicalie. I pulled on a festive jerkin, and left my bedchamber in search of the source. As I descend I pass the great tree, with gaily-wrapped presents beneath. The sound is louder, and no less insistent. But fie on me for suspecting that one of our friends might have gifted us such an elefant-argent that would have roused our slumber on such a day — for in truth, the toots appear to issue from below, yea, the very bowels of the house, the Cupboard under the Stairs. Wherein rests a large package I knew to be intended for ozymandias_cat, concealed there by woolymonkey. Could her Spidermonkey and Squirrelmonkey be such mischievous knaves as to employ such a devious scheme? Again my paranoia is unfounded, as I sense the fanfare loudest by my left ear, and espy there the odd square chalice installed by DSC Alarums, for protection of our abode from burglary and such intruders, the plans for traditional moat and portcullis and machicolations being eschewed by the Council of Cambridge. Fortuitously I had studied under the magus on his first visit and learnt the Codes of Appeasement, deft employment of which restored the horn to stillness. Its voiced complaint was not of low and vicious men, but only of low volts. I return to my chamber, thinking to consult the magus on the morrow.