I wear a sheepish grin, but my bark's a howl, for dinner plans, I cleverly prowl. What am I?

I never grow old and I never decay, I was even found where the pharaohs once lay. A term of endearment your sweetheart might say, made by small gatherers that work hard all day. I'm stored in waxy hexagons, perfectly aligned, a geometric treasure that’s one of a kind.

My ribs are carved from forest bone, my voice from equines tail. I wail when bows run through my hair, and hush when fingers fail.

A crown of points upon a head Sometimes cut off after a shot of lead Reindeer, stag, or moose, Let the arrows loose To claim the crown for your roost.

What falls but never breaks, and breaks but never falls?