In the heart of the jungle, where vines twisted like puzzles and the air smelled of rain and ripe fruit, baby monkey Bella was chasing butterflies. She was curious, fast, and just a little too fearless for her own good.
While the rest of the troop napped in the shade, Bella ventured farther than usual. Her eyes followed a golden-winged butterfly until it disappeared into the tall grass near a fallen log.
That’s when she heard it—the faintest hiss, soft like wind but sharper. A long, sleek shape slid across the leaves. A snake, coiled and waiting.
Bella froze. Her tiny heart pounded. The snake’s tongue flicked, tasting the air. One move, and it would strike.
But Bella wasn’t alone.
From above, twigs snapped. Zazu, her monkey cousin, screamed out the alarm call. Within seconds, the trees exploded with movement. Monkeys leapt, screeched, and shook branches. The snake raised its head, but now it was surrounded.
Bella darted backward just as the troop’s leader, Tamu, launched himself down, landing between her and the predator. He bared his teeth, flailing his limbs to look bigger. The snake, realizing it was outnumbered, hissed once more and slithered back into the undergrowth.
Bella clung to her mother, shaken but safe.
That night, under the moonlit canopy, the troop cuddled close. Bella didn’t chase butterflies the next day—but she never forgot the lesson: in the jungle, some strangers don’t hiss until it’s almost too late.
